


The Sitter

by wheel_pen



Series: Viridian Mal [31]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fish out of Water, Gen, Imprinting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trip goes to stay on an alien ship with an eight-hour pressurization process, so Jon takes care of Mal for him. Mal cleans, he sings, he makes Jon coffee, but it’s not the same without Trip. This story is unfinished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Viridians appear human, but are actually aliens who imprint on other people (Viridian or otherwise) and form a bond with them. They also live their entire life cycle in about six Earth years.
> 
> 2\. In each series, a different character is a Viridian, who was raised by mean Klingons on an outpost. An Enterprise crewmember is captured by the Klingons and they inadvertently form a bond with the Viridian, who helps them escape. Then they return to rescue the Viridian and bring them aboard the Enterprise. The Viridian homeworld is contacted and the Enterprise crew learn the Viridian will most likely die if they are sent away. So they end up staying on the Enterprise, and the crewmember has to adjust.
> 
> 3\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

            "Hey, Captain!"

            Archer turned back down the hallway and slowed his walk, allowing his Chief Engineer to catch up with him. "All set to go over to the Crellian ship?"

            "Just about," Trip assured him. "Havin' a few more tools packed up on the pod."

            "Heard you were taking half of Engineering with you," Jon teased.

            "Well, d—n, it's an eight-hour pressurization and decontamination process," Trip reminded him, not exactly looking forward to it. "If I forget something I can't exactly have you transport it over for immediate use."

            "I suppose not."

            "Say," Trip continued, a bit more hesitantly, "I was wondering if you could do me a favor while I'm gone?"

            "Name it," Jon offered generously.

            "I need someone to look after Mal for me."

            Jon immediately stopped in the middle of the hall. "Hang on a second, Trip. Um, I don't really think I could—"

            "Aw, come on, Captain! I can't leave him with T'Pol again, that'd just be cruel for _both_ of them," Trip pointed out.

            Archer had to agree with that. "True, but I just don't think I'd be a good—match, Trip. I mean, Mal requires a lot of attention, and, well, I'm _kind of_ the Captain of the whole ship…"

            Trip rolled his eyes. "I don't know why everyone thinks Mal is so much trouble to look after," he groused. "Travis practically ran screaming in the other direction when I asked him."

            "Maybe it's because you complain about how much trouble he is to look after all the time," Jon suggested. Then he frowned at Trip. "Wait a minute. I'm not even your first choice?"

            Trip grinned. "Well, it's just that you're _kind of_ the Captain of the whole ship, thought you might be too busy. Anyway," he went on, brandishing a data pad, "I've got all the tips right here. It's really pretty simple. He'll be occupied in Engineering most of the time—left him some access tubes to scrub out—you just have to say 'okay' when he wants to eat something—unless it contains the things on this list here—and you have to watch him because sometimes he'll try to sneak a forbidden item in to see if you're paying attention, and sometimes he just doesn't know any better." Jon nodded, feeling overwhelmed already. "The only _real_ issue is at the end of the day, when he's done in Engineering, he'll probably want to curl up in bed with you or something. Which shouldn't be a big deal, after all you've got Porthos…"

            "Yes, because another man sleeping in my bed is _nearly_ equivalent to a small beagle sleeping there," Jon observed dryly.

            "Well, I had a bloodhound named Bedford growin' up that used to sleep in bed with me," Trip reminisced. "He was nearly as big as Mal. Especially when I was smaller." Jon frowned, slightly confused. "He was a lot like Mal, actually. Big ol' scaredy-cat most of the time, but he'd run right out into traffic to fetch me when I wandered off. Same way of stickin' his cold nose in the back of my neck at bedtime, too."

            "How sweet. Um, about Mal—"

            "Oh, and you've got to pet him some, too," Trip added, getting back on track, "just any old way, he isn't picky. And he's not shy about it, you may have noticed, so don't think you have to wait for permission or anything, he's kind of a slut for petting —"

            "I don't really need that imagery, thanks. Are you sure Dr. Phlox wouldn't be--"

            "Nah." Trip shook his head. "Mal can't relax around Phlox, just associates him with one of us being sick or injured, you know? Plus Phlox isn't really touchy-feely enough."

            "Good thing I'm Captain Touchy-Feely, then."

            "Hey, you're lookin' at Chief Engineer Touchy-Feely," Trip shot back. "If he gets in the way just tell him to shut up and go home, he probably won't take offense. Um, but if he does, and he starts hollarin' or something, just bribe him with food. That works pretty well."

            "I think I can handle that."

            "Oh." Trip looked Jon straight in the eye and spoke emphatically. "This is something _really important._ You do _not_ want to forget this."

            "What's that?" Jon asked worriedly.

            "Lock the door whenever you use the bathroom. For any reason. It's just better that way."

            Jon accepted the data pad. "Great. I'll keep that in mind."

 

            "Now look here," Trip said sternly, "I don't wanna repeat of the scene we had before. Dr. Phlox is standin' by, just in case. Understand?"

            Mal nodded mournfully. "I understand, Trip." His eyes were already damp and his chin trembled as he knelt on the floor in the launch bay. "I just—wanted you to know, that I'll never forget you, Trip, _never_." With that, he threw his arms around Trip's waist, burying his tear-stained cheeks against the other man's stomach.

            "Oh for G-d's sake," Trip muttered, petting Mal's hair and shoulders soothingly despite his exasperation. "I'm only gonna be gone five or six days. And I'll be eight hundred meters off the port bow."

            "I know!" Mal sobbed, voice slightly muffled by Trip's uniform. "It's awful!"

            Unfortunately Mal's theatrics were not playing to a private audience; Archer, T'Pol, Travis, and a couple of Launch Bay crewmen all stood nearby, in various states of awkwardness.

            "Look, buddy, the Captain's gonna take real good care of you while I'm gone, okay?" Trip tried to persuade him. "And then I'll be back before you know it."

            "You won't," Mal countered stubbornly. "You _won't_ be back before I know it."

            Trip sighed. There was really no use trying to reason with Mal at this point. Instead he attempted to detach himself. "Come on, buddy, time to let go. The Crellians are waiting—"

            "Horrible, nasty aliens," Mal muttered. He looked up at Trip pleadingly. "Can't they fix their own engines? Why are you the only person in the universe who can fix people's engines?"

            "Hush!" Trip ordered quickly, pressing Mal's face back into his mid-section to shut him up. He glanced around furtively, but no one indicated they had heard Mal's remark. _I told you not to say that to anyone. Especially the Captain. You know how keen he is to establish good relations with the aliens we meet, and if I can help by pokin' at their engines, I will. So just shut it._

            "I'm sorry, Trip!" Mal cried suddenly. "I don't want you to leave being angry at me!"

            "I'm not angry with you," Trip assured him, noting the confused expressions of those around them. "I just want you to be good for the Captain, and not cause any trouble while I'm gone, okay?"

            "Okay, Trip," Mal promised wetly. "I shall try to save all my trouble for when you return."

            It would have been a funny comment, except Trip was certain Mal was absolutely serious. "Great, buddy. I'll look forward to that." He tugged on Mal's arms a bit. "So, let me go, then."

            Slowly, and with great reluctance, Mal released his hold on Trip. Turning to the rest of his crewmates, Trip got the distinct impression that Mal's melodramatic good-bye had given the entire room an aura of sadness, as if he really _were_ going off to a hostile environment for a long time. Geez, how many times had he just given a wave and climbed into the shuttlepod for one mission or another? Now he felt like he had to hug or at least shake hands with everyone present, and offer a parting comment as well. _Great, thanks, Mal._

            He tried to shake the feeling off as best he could. "Ready, Travis?"

            "Yes, sir," the ensign replied, not quite in his usual good humor.

            "Trip—" He turned to the Captain. "Um, take care of yourself."

            The engineer tried to smirk. "I'm sure I'll be fine, Captain. See you in a few days."

            A wail of despair from the side made them all jump, but Trip refused to go back over to Mal. He'd never leave if he tried to wait until Mal stopped crying. Instead he gave Jon a look, suggesting _he_ take charge of quieting Mal down. After all, that was what he'd agreed to do while Trip was gone, might as well get started on it. Although now that he thought about it, Trip couldn't quite remember Jon actually _saying_ he agreed. _Huh. Too late now._ Trip hopped into the shuttlepod and shut the hatch firmly. He refused to contemplate the idea that he might miss Mal as well.

            Trip gave Travis the word and the pod started to pull out of the launch bay. The last thing Trip saw through the small windows was Jon awkwardly attempting to pat Mal's head where the other man had collapsed in a puddle of desolation. He figured the Captain had his work cut out for him.

 

            Jon didn't see Mal for the rest of the day. He was a little worried about that—he didn't want to utterly lose Trip's companion on his very first _day_ of babysitting duty—but every time he asked T'Pol to check the ship for Viridian biosigns, she came up with the same result: the J12 access tube.

            "I guess he must really like it there," Archer commented.

            "When I had the… job of supervising Mal the last time Commander Tucker left the ship," T'Pol added, and Archer _was_ kind of beginning to regret teasing her about that so much now, "he informed me that the J12 access tube held a 'special meaning' for Commander Tucker and himself."

            "Okay," Jon agreed, slightly mystified.

 

            Jon shuffled tiredly through the door to his cabin, already beginning to unzip his uniform and toe off his shoes. With nothing to do but _sit_ while Trip worked on the Crellian ship beside them, Jon had felt too guilty to put off his paperwork backlog any longer (T'Pol's pointed reminders had helped considerably). And somehow an afternoon, and evening, spent reading reports and writing reports and writing reports about reading reports managed to exhaust him the way no battle or crisis ever did.

            But he knew what would fix him right up—change into some civvies, curl up in bed with Porthos, and fall asleep with the water polo match playing. Pure bliss. As if reading his mind, Porthos barked cheerfully at his arrival and ran over for some attention.

            "Hey, boy, howya doin'?" Jon asked, leaning down to pet the beagle.

            "Well _there_ you are!" said an indignant voice, and Jon was so startled he lost his balance and sat down hard on the floor. The blankets on the bed moved and Mal peered down at Jon over the edge of the mattress. "I've been waiting forever!"

            Jon sighed and gave Porthos a look. "You could have warned me," he told the dog under his breath. Stiffly Jon stood so _he_ could look down on _Mal_ , who had made himself very comfortable in Jon's bed. "What are you doing here, Mal?" As if it weren't obvious.

            "Waiting to go to bed, of course!" Mal replied sensibly. "Commander T'Pol told me you were _quite_ busy when I called looking for you, so I didn't want to disturb you. I thought I would just wait up instead. Did you know," he added suddenly, "that Porthos has this nasty habit of trying to leap onto the bed when there's someone in it?"

            Jon glanced at the dog, who whined pleadingly at him. "Well, Porthos usually _does_ sleep in the bed with me," he pointed out to Mal. Mentally he assured his pet that he was sorry he'd had to put up with Mal all evening.

            The dark-haired man struggled to contain his disgust and was only partially successful. "Anyway," he went on with forced brightness, " _I_ shall sleep in the bed with you for the next few days, so you needn't depend on the _dog_. That will be _so_ much better, don't you think?"

            Porthos whined again and Jon picked him up to comfort him. "It's okay, boy," he whispered to the beagle. "It's only for a few days."

            "What was that?" Mal asked suspiciously.

            Jon set Porthos down and the dog scampered to his pillow on the floor with what Jon was certain was a pout. "I don't suppose you could possibly sleep in your own quarters," he suggested to Mal half-heartedly.

            "Oh, well, of course I could," the other man replied, popping out of bed. "If you come with me, of course. Actually that would be _so_ much nicer," he added enthusiastically, "as I haven't changed the sheets on the bed yet and everything will smell like Trip—"

            Jon held up his hand to stop him. "That's okay, we can sleep here."

            Mal looked slightly disappointed. "Oh. Right, of course." He gave Jon an appraising glance. "Well, let's get you into something more comfortable, shall we?" He reached for the zipper on Jon's uniform.

            Jon took a step back. "I can, er, change clothes myself, thanks," he pointed out, looking around for his pajamas.

            "Oh. Alright. Here you go, then." Mal handed him a neatly-folded pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. "I found them in your drawer. They needed a bit of washing and mending, actually, but I took care of that."

            "Thanks," Jon replied dubiously. The sleep clothes appeared to be entirely wrinkle-free, somehow. He glanced at Mal, standing in the center of the cabin expectantly, and began backing up towards the bathroom. "I'll just go change…"

            "Don't forget to brush your teeth!" Mal advised.

            "Right, right." The bathroom door slid shut between them. Jon stared at it a moment, then reached out to the control panel and locked it, as Trip had suggested. Just in case.

            Mal was doing some last-minute tidying when Jon reemerged. "There's an awful lot of loose dog hair around here," he pointed out with revulsion, transferring two strands to the waste receptacle.

            "Uh, I hadn't noticed," Jon replied mildly. "Say, how'd you like to watch a little water polo before going to sleep?" he suggested gamely. "That's what I usually…" He trailed off at Mal's expression.

            "All that light and noise is too stimulating for Trip," Mal replied, shaking his head in disapproval. "He wouldn't be able to go to sleep very well."

            Jon almost pointed out that he _wasn't_ Trip, but he supposed that was painfully obvious to the other man. Mal seemed to be thinking just that, in fact, as he gave a little sigh and stared blankly out the window for a moment. Then he shook himself and refocused on Jon. "Well, we should probably get to bed, Captain Archer," he reminded Jon, pulling back the blankets he'd straightened while Jon was changing. And brushing his teeth.

            "Right." Jon dimmed the lights and climbed into bed. He heard a hopeful whimper from Porthos but resisted the urge to call the dog to him. They could both make the sacrifice for a night or two. "Something wrong?" he asked when he saw Mal still standing beside the bed, lit only by starlight.

            "Are you going to sleep like that all night?" Mal asked, in a tone that suggested the answer had better be 'no.'

            "Like what?" Jon shot back, getting a bit irritated now.

            "On your back."

            "Oh. Uh…" Well, Mal _did_ have a point, the bed wasn't really big enough for a second person when Jon was positioned that way. Of course, it was the way he always slept, the way he was comfortable sleeping. In fact it felt _so_ comfortable right now…

            "Well, I can always sleep on the floor," Mal suggested, deeply sarcastic. "With the _dog_."

            Jon wanted to point out that Mal _did_ used to sleep on the floor. But more than that he wanted to go to sleep. "Okay, well, I'll just—" He turned stiffly on his side, trying to get comfortable by stuffing the pillows under his head and neck. There, that should leave sufficient space for Mal.

            "Hmm," the other man remarked critically. "Trip always sleeps on his other side."

            Jon took the hint and rolled over, scooting to the other side of the mattress. One side was as good—or as bad—as another, after all.

            Mal climbed onto the bed behind him, finally. "Don't I get a pillow?" he requested, and Jon sighed and gave one up. "Thank you!" Jon spent the next several moments readjusting himself with just _one_ pillow.

            As soon as Jon was still, Mal snuggled right up against him. "Uh, Mal—"

            "Trip likes me to stroke his hair, like so," Mal pointed out, threading his fingers gently through Jon's hair. "Would you like me to stroke _your_ hair, like so?"

            Feeling intensely uncomfortable, Jon nonetheless tried to sound casual as he replied, "No, no thanks."

            "Oh." Mal put his arm down. Then he had another idea. "Trip likes me to murmur soothingly to him. It helps him sleep. Would you like me to murmur soothingly to you?"

            "Actually, you know what _really_ helps me sleep, Mal?" Jon began, forcing as much patience into his tone as possible. "I sleep best when everyone is _quiet_ and _still_."

            He heard the frown in Mal's voice. "Then why did you want to watch water polo? That's _not_ quiet _or_ still!"

            "Mal. Let's just go to sleep now, okay?"

            "Fine," Mal agreed, cuddling up against Jon's back.

            Jon decided to risk it. "Mal, do you think you could possibly scoot over a bit?" He tried to use a nice, light tone, but it was easy to feel Mal stiffen up behind him, and Jon sighed before the other man could even start speaking.

            " _Scoot over_?" Mal repeated, sounding incensed. "You mean you want me to _move_? All the way to the _other side of the bed_?!"

            "Well, it's not really _that_ far away…" Jon tried, but Mal was already outraged.

            "You _won't_ let me stroke your hair, you _won't_ let me murmur soothingly, and now you want me to sleep on the other side of the bed—" Mal ranted. Porthos barked in protest at the noise.

            "Okay, okay," Jon recanted, before the whole room could erupt in chaos. "Calm down. Just—sleep wherever you want." As long as sleep was involved.

            "Thank you, Captain Archer!" Mal sounded happy again as he curled up against Jon, even closer than before, it seemed. "Pleasant dreams!" Jon just closed his eyes.

 

_Tuesday morning_

            Jon awoke slowly, his muscles stiff from sleeping crowded onto the very edge of the bed. Well, he hoped Mal was happy, anyway, since he'd gotten to sleep in a bed with someone, and hopefully Trip would be back—

            Jon jerked backwards as he opened his eyes and found another pair staring at him, just centimeters away. "Mal!" he complained, willing his heart to slow down. Talk about jump-starting your day.

            Mal stood up from where he'd been kneeling beside the bed. "I was trying to see if you were awake," he explained. "I can always tell when Trip's awake, you see, but I couldn't tell with you, so I just had to watch you closely and…"

            "Okay, okay, I get it," Jon agreed, stumbling out of bed on the opposite side. He lurched towards the shower, looking forward to a little hot water on his muscles. "I'm just gonna—Mal!" Everything on his shelves and desk was in disarray, out of order, facing the wrong way. He turned an accusatory glare on the other man. "Did you do this?!"

            "Oh yes," Mal admitted readily, as if it were of little consequence. "I've been cleaning. Your quarters are _frightfully_ dirty, I have to say, though really nowhere near as filthy as Trip's when I first moved in."

            "But why were you—" Jon shook his head, giving up on _why_. "Just put it all back where it was while I take my shower, okay?"

            "Oh, you can't take a shower _yet_!" Mal insisted. Jon leaned his head against the bathroom doorframe and sighed with resignation. Porthos whimpered in sympathy at his feet and Jon picked the beagle up, noticing he appeared to have been groomed to within an inch of his doggy life. "Oh, Porthos is _much_ cleaner now, don't you think?" Mal remarked in a slightly sinister tone, seeing Jon inspecting the dog. "You wouldn't _believe_ how much loose fur he was carrying around! Anyway," he went on blithely, "it would just be silly for you to take a shower _now_. You should wait until after we're back from the gym."

            "The gym?" Jon repeated blankly.

            "Of course!" Mal frowned at him. "I go to the gym for _tai chi_ every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at 0600. And today is Tuesday."

            "Oh-six hundred?" Jon set his dog down and stumbled to the chrono. "It's 0545!" he exclaimed in irritation. He wasn't due on the Bridge until 0800.

            "Well, I let you sleep in," Mal allowed. "Here, I've already picked out some clothes for you to wear." He indicated a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, tastefully coordinated, draped across a chair. Possibly they had been ironed. "I'll just wash your face and comb your hair a bit, and then we'll go."

            He started to walk past Jon into the bathroom but was stopped by the older man. Jon had so many items to object to, he almost didn't know where to begin. "Mal. You can go to the gym for _tai chi_. That's fine. But _I_ am going back to bed."

            Mal wrinkled his nose a bit. "Hmm, perhaps you ought to brush your teeth first, too," he suggested delicately. He trotted on into the bathroom and lowered the lid and seat of the toilet with his foot. "If you sit down right here, I'll brush them for you."

            "Mal! I'm not going to the gym with you," Jon insisted, exasperated.

            The other man was already running a washcloth under the water at the sink. "Captain," he chided lightly, "I can't go to the gym by _myself_! I can't be _unsupervised_! Didn't Trip tell you? I'm sure he did."

            Well, now that Mal mentioned it, there was something stirring in Jon's sleep-deprived mind. He'd been busy—being _kind of_ the Captain of the whole ship—and he'd only skimmed the instructions Trip had left, of which there were a lot. He'd focused on what he judged to be the most important items, like "List of Foods That Will Kill Mal If Eaten," and figured he could look the other things up later. But perhaps he vaguely recalled Trip ranting, a few months ago, about changing his exercise schedule to accommodate Mal.

            Still, there had to be a way out of it. "You're, uh—thanks, I can wash my own face, thank you—you're doing _tai chi_ with a group, right?" he inquired, taking the wet washcloth away from Mal.

            "Oh yes, Ensign Parma is our instructor," Mal replied cheerfully. "She's very good. And there's also Cheryl and Machiko and Chris and Sam and Al and—"

            Jon held up his hand to stem the tide. "It sounds like there are plenty of people there to supervise you already," he observed.

            "Oh, no," Mal assured him, deftly putting toothpaste on Jon's toothbrush for him. "They don't count at all! Trip _always_ has to stay in the gym with me the _whole time_ to make sure I don't get into any trouble!" Jon opened his mouth to protest again but was cut off as Mal worked himself up. "Why, think of all the horrible things I might do if left unsupervised! I might stay in the exercise ball longer than ten minutes. Or use it without wearing shoes! I might try to pick up something heavy and put it back down again without a spotter! Or I might try to exercise without stretching thoroughly first!" Jon wasn't sure if this litany constituted threats or mere speculation, but Mal shook his head with great finality at the end of it. "Oh no, Captain. You simply _must_ come to the gym with me."

            Jon pulled up his 'Captain voice,' early though it was. "Look, Mal—no, I can brush my own teeth, thank you—I am not going to the gym with you. That's final. Go by yourself, or stay here and let me sleep, it's up to you. But there is _no way_ that I am going to that gym at this hour of the morning."

            Ten minutes later. "Well, good morning, Captain," Ensign Parma greeted all too cheerfully. "We don't usually see you in here this early!"

            Jon smiled at her tightly. "Well, today is special," he pointed out, trying not to sound sarcastic. "I'm here to deliver Mal. And supervise him." Mal nodded eagerly beside him but didn't move forward onto the mat, and as the seconds stretched out Jon began to wonder if there was some kind of ceremony involved that he wasn't aware of. "Um, so, go ahead."

            Those seemed to be the magic words, as Mal finally stepped up to join Ensign Parma. The older woman seemed friendly enough as she asked, "And how are you this morning, Mal?"

            "He wouldn't let me brush his teeth for him!" Mal immediately complained, and Jon rolled his eyes.

            The older woman put her arm around Mal's shoulders and began to lead him away, towards the rest of the group. "Well, we can't have everything we want in life, dear," she advised him sagely.

            "And he wouldn't stretch with me!" Mal went on, as Jon decided his duty had been done and he could safely head towards the treadmill on the other end of the gym. "What if I'm terribly injured because my muscles are stiff? What if I become horribly deformed…"

            Jon charged up one of the exercise machines, nodding a greeting at the crewman on the treadmill nearby. What was Mal whining about? he thought as he began to jog. The _tai chi_ group was on the mat stretching anyway. And besides that—well, this was a question Jon didn't really want to know the answer to unless the answer was 'Absolutely not, of course!'—but when Trip got back on the ship, Jon was going to ask him if he _ever_ let Mal brush his teeth for him. Jon hoped not. He was _certain_ not. Trip was far too independent-minded to succumb to Mal's desire to do everything for him. Right? Otherwise, Jon was learning _far_ more about his friend on this little adventure than he ever wanted to know.

            " _T'Pol to Captain Archer_ ," rang the comm suddenly, and Jon slowed the treadmill until he could jump off, mopping his face with a towel. On the bright side of all this, he really _had_ been meaning to get into the gym more.

            "Archer here," he replied, panting only slightly.

            " _Captain, we are detecting some unusual phenomena on the long-range sensors_ ," T'Pol informed him crisply.

            "Unusual?" Archer repeated with a hint of irritation. He hated it when T'Pol was vague. Then he had to try and read from her inflection whether it was something serious or not, which with a Vulcan was near impossible. Especially over the comm.

            " _Possible indications of a cloud of stellar dust heading in our direction_ ," the Science Officer continued.

            Hmm, she didn't _sound_ worried. He thought. "Dangerous?"

            " _Unlikely_ ," T'Pol assured him. " _But it may present a unique opportunity for scientific study._ "

            "I'll be right up," Jon promised, intrigued now that he knew the ship wasn't threatened. Not that he got all that excited about stellar dust, of course, but having something to study while they were stuck here by the Crellian ship was better than just sitting—Jon stopped, just about to walk out the door of the gym. _Trip always has to stay in the gym with me the whole time_ , Mal had said. Would he throw a fit if he discovered Jon had left him there alone?

            Slowly Jon turned around and saw the answer in the pair of eyes that burned a hole through him from across the room. Mal stood on the edge of the mat, not following the movements of the rest of the group but rather staring at Jon curiously, as if he were prepared to start screaming the moment Jon stepped over the threshold.

            The older man took a step back into the gym—letting the crewmember who had been stuck behind him go on—and punched the comm button by the wall. "Archer to T'Pol," he sighed, voice heavy with resignation. It was becoming a familiar feeling.

            " _T'Pol here_."

            Jon tried to sound casual. "Why don't you bring that sensor data down here and show it to me?"

            He could picture T'Pol quirking an eyebrow. " _To the gym, Captain?_ "

            "Yes, to the gym," Archer confirmed, a bit sharply. She was going to think he was more erratic than ever. "Is that a problem?"

            " _Not at all_ ," T'Pol replied crisply. " _I will be there shortly_."

            Jon turned back to Mal to give him a look that said, _There, happy?_ only to find that the dark-haired man had returned to the slow, graceful movements of the rest of his group. Rolling his eyes Jon went back to the treadmill. He had just gotten back up to full jogging speed again when T'Pol arrived, looking cool and neat as always.

            Wrinkling her nose at being trapped in this den of concentrated human odor and casual, illogical behavior, the Vulcan stood beside the exercise machine expectantly, data pad in hand.

            "The stellar dust?" Archer prompted, not stopping his workout.

            Glancing at the data pad, T'Pol began relaying facts and figures to him that ought to have Astrometrics salivating. "So those… sensor upgrades… were worth the wait?" Archer concluded, panting.

            "Indeed," the Vulcan agreed, composed and serene. And not out of breath.  Placing the data pad primly behind her back, T'Pol stood beside the treadmill a moment longer.

            "Something else, Commander?" Archer prompted, knowing that look.

            "I am merely attempting to discern why you wished to be apprised of this situation here," she finally admitted.

            Jon slowed the treadmill to a walk for his cool down, swabbing his face with the now-damp towel. "Well, it's Tuesday, you know," he shrugged, as if she should understand what that meant.

            "I am aware of the day," T'Pol agreed. "I was not, however, aware that you adhered to so strict a schedule of exercise."

            Jon was about to lead her on a bit farther—might as well get _some_ fun out of this—when Mal came bouncing over. "Good morning, Commander T'Pol," he greeted cheerfully.

            "Good morning," she replied sedately, but Jon could see the light had gone on for her, dashing his hopes of amusement. "It was very… kind of the Captain to accompany you to your class this morning, Mal."

            Oh, well, at least T'Pol was praising him, Jon thought proudly. That's a good thing.

            "Oh, yes," Mal agreed heartily. "But don't worry, Commander T'Pol, as soon as we return home, I shall clean him thoroughly and change his clothing, so he won't be all smelly and sweaty on the Bridge with you."

            "How thoughtful," T'Pol remarked, as Jon wilted. "Will there be anything else, Captain?"

            Well, once dignity and authority had gone, what was left? "No, thank you, Commander," Jon replied, and she exited quickly.

            He turned a peevish gaze on Mal. "You're not going to clean me," he hissed, stopping the treadmill entirely.

            "Well _someone_ ought to," Mal pointed out, following Jon to a bench. "You're rather disgusting at the moment."

            "Thanks," Jon muttered sarcastically, tossing his towel in the laundry bin.

            "Oh, don't be offended!" Mal insisted, sounding a bit distressed. "Trip says, exercise is very important and healthy, and one _ought_ to become sweaty and smelly and disgusting while doing it." A bright idea crossed his mind. "Here, smell _me_! I'm rather icky as well, though not _quite_ as icky as you…"

            Jon pushed his arm away. "I'm not going to smell you," he asserted, drawing the line firmly. "Anyway, I _will_ take a shower before going on duty, I just don't need your help to do it!"

            "Oh." Mal seemed disappointed. "Well, alright then." He glanced back to the other side of the room. "Ooh, break's over!" He started to stand.

            "Wait a minute!" Jon demanded. "I thought you were done!"

            "Nope, just on break," Mal corrected. "I'll be done in, oh, only another forty-five minutes." He trotted off, leaving Jon to slump against the wall and look around for a different exercise to do. No wonder Trip had been in such great shape lately.

            Jon had finally settled on the weight machine when the comm rang for him again. " _Marcus to Captain Archer_."

            Immediately alert for security problems, Jon wasted no time lowering his weights and answering the hail. "Archer here."

            " _Sir, if you've got a few minutes before Alpha shift_ ," the Tactical Officer began, " _I'd like to go over the new security protocols I sent you_."

            "Uh, yeah, sure," Jon agreed, looking around for Mal. Security protocols trumped _tai chi_ , surely.

            " _I'll bring them down to the gym, sir_ ," Marcus assured him crisply.

            "Hang on—how did you know I was in the gym?" Jon questioned.

            " _Commander T'Pol mentioned it_ ," Marcus replied, without a trace of humor in his voice. " _She said you wouldn't be able to leave until 0730, sir_." And Marcus was far too professional an officer to ever question _why_ that might be. He would just investigate it for himself.

            Jon sighed. "Sure, yeah, come on down." Maybe they could set up near one of the less popular pieces of exercise equipment.

            Archer and Marcus had just gotten into the meat of the security proposals—squeezed onto a bench near a little-used 'stair step' machine, as if anyone even _had_ stairs anymore—when the comm beeped again. " _Lt. Hess to Captain Archer_."

            Archer rolled his eyes; he should've just called a staff meeting in here while Mal learned to balance his opposing forces. "Archer here. Something wrong, Lieutenant?"

            " _No, sir_ ," the young woman in charge of Engineering in Trip's absence replied. " _I was just hoping you would approve a few changes to the duty roster for today._ "

            "Oh. Sure, yeah." Jon glanced around, feeling embarrassed yet again. "Could you—"

            " _Shall I bring them to the gym, sir?_ " she inquired politely.

            "Did T'Pol tell _everyone_ I was in the gym this morning?" Jon asked in a peevish tone. Marcus gave no helpful response. He could just imagine her instructing Hoshi to spread it all over the ship, and the reason _why_ , of course—

            " _No, sir_ ," Hess replied, sounding mildly confused. " _But it's Tuesday, sir, when Mal has his_ tai chi _class. I always have to find Commander Tucker in the gym when Mal has a class, and since you're looking after Mal at the moment…_ "

            "Oh," Jon answered, put back in his place. "Well, I guess you should bring the roster down here, then."

 

            Jon barely had time to take a shower and change before his staff meeting started. He had a feeling his staff would forgive him for being slightly late, under the circumstances, but the last thing Jon wanted was to face their knowing, amused expressions. He jogged the last several meters to the lift.

            "Good morning, everyone!" Jon greeted, approaching the station at the back of the Bridge. The whole senior staff was already assembled—except Trip, of course, though Lt. Hess was present in his place—but a glance at the chrono told Jon they were technically one minute early. "Guess we'll have a prompt start to the day, huh?"

            Murmurs and mumbles from his mostly-sleepy crew met Jon's remark. Funny, he'd been up for a couple of hours now—and done more than an hour's workout in the gym—but he felt reasonably energetic instead of sluggish and tired. Maybe there was something to this morning exercise routine after all.

            "So, T'Pol," Jon began professionally, turning to the Vulcan, "how's our giant dust cloud doing?"

            "Its speed has not altered, Captain," she reported. "It will be within enhanced scanning range in four-point-three-seven hours." He indicated that she should fill the rest of the senior staff in about the phenomenon and T'Pol began her lecture.

            A moment later Jon saw a movement in the corner of his eye and turned towards the back service exit. Mal was hovering there, carrying something, and Jon worked hard not to cringe visibly. Mal was supposed to be safely stowed away in Engineering, working through some list of tasks set by Trip. Jon hadn't anticipated seeing him again until his mid-morning snack break.

            Mal took Jon's brief glance as acknowledgement and slipped onto the Bridge. At least he was trying to be discreet, Jon noticed, or what Mal _thought_ was discreet. T'Pol, of course, took his appearance as interruption and started to break off her report, but Jon signaled her to continue. He tried to look like he was paying complete attention to her.

            Mal sidled up to him with what Jon realized was a cup of coffee, and he gave the other man a genuine smile. He _did_ like to have a cup during staff meetings but had forgotten it in the rush this morning. Mal started to hand him the mug, then suddenly took it back—and sipped it himself speculatively. Then he blew gently on the hot liquid as Jon stared. Mal took another sip and, finding it at the proper temperature, handed it to Jon proudly. Jon plastered a smile—less genuine now—onto his face and took the cup. He wondered how long it would take Mal to realize he wasn't drinking it. Jon glanced at his senior staff and saw most of them watching T'Pol instead of him—or at least pretending to.

            The First Officer finished her report with Jon having missed most of it. No matter, that's why there were written versions for him to peruse. And it didn't sound as if much had changed since her report to him in the gym.

            Marcus was next, with his security updates. Again—thanks, Jon grudgingly supposed, to Mal's workout schedule—he had already heard most of this today. Which meant he was free to concentrate on Mal's _next_ antic, as the other man dropped to his knees beside Jon and began rubbing his head against Jon's hip. It reminded Jon unpleasantly of the cat an ex had owned. Well, if Mal thought Jon was going to _pet_ him—on the Bridge, of all places—he had just better think again. Jon ignored him and focused on Marcus.

            The pushing became more insistent, and a quick glance down showed that Mal was frowning at him now. Jon tried to indicate with circumspect hand gestures that Mal should go away now, but the other man just didn't seem to get it. Upon looking back up Jon noticed that his senior staff was doing an admirable job of pretending not to notice Mal. Even when Jon swayed under his onslaught.

            Hess began her report on Engineering, which Jon really wanted to pay attention to. This was somewhat complicated by Mal grabbing Jon's hand and trying to pet his own head with it. "Stop," Jon hissed to him.

            "Sir?" Hess asked in confusion.

            Jon snapped his gaze back up at her. "Nothing, Lieutenant," he insisted. "Please continue." Mal was glaring up at him now. Jon glared back.

            "Mal," Hoshi whispered softly, finally coming to her Captain's rescue. She waggled her fingers invitingly and Mal left Jon's side, crawling over to the Communications Officer who scratched the back of his head warmly.

            Jon gave her a look of gratitude, although he felt an odd tinge of inadequacy at the same time. Maybe Mal would have been better off with Hoshi instead.

 

            Archer fidgeted in his chair, trying to concentrate on the report he was supposed to be reading, but his thoughts kept drifting. Water polo. Lunchtime. How he could get Trip to readjust his chair without admitting that it had been just as uncomfortable since the last time he 'fixed' it as before. Suddenly there was a movement near him, too close to be a crewmember changing seats, and then Mal plopped down in front of him. Actually, partially on top of him, as he squirmed between Archer's legs and propped his elbows up on the Captain's thighs. Archer had the sudden idea that he could ask Trip to install an emergency ejector seat in the Captain's chair and get his readjustment that way.

            Mal shoved something under Archer's nose. "Can I eat this now, please?" he requested.

            Archer pulled the object back to a reasonable distance and examined it. He had the distinct impression the Bridge crew was laughing at him. "Uh, yeah, I guess—it's just an apple, isn't it?"

            "Okay," Mal agreed, taking it back. Without changing position he took a noisy bite from the fruit, staring at the Captain solemnly. "So what are you doing?"

            "I'm reading a report," Archer replied. "Uh, would you mind… backing up a bit?" Mal blinked at him. "Maybe you could sit… over there." He pointed in a random direction, away from himself.

            Mal turned to regard the location Archer had indicated, then swung back. "That's awfully far away," he observed. "If I sat that far away, you wouldn't be able to pet me."

            Now Archer _knew_ the Bridge crew was laughing at him—Travis's shoulders were shaking, Hoshi was pink, and even Marcus was smirking. He knew T'Pol was amused as well, simply because she hadn't tried to expel Mal from the Bridge yet herself.

            "Um, I don't think I'm really going to be petting you," Archer tried to explain. "Right now," he added quickly, seeing the righteous protest building in the other man's eyes. He tried to lower his voice, hunching over a bit. "Uh, maybe later, when I'm off-duty…"

            Mal was not mollified. "Come on then, it's easy," he insisted, grabbing the Captain's hand and moving it through his hair. "Just like this, see?" Archer decided this would be an excellent time for the Vulcan High Command to call. He wondered if T'Pol was busily looking for their number right now.

            He yanked his hand away from Mal, trying to reclaim a bit of captainly dignity. "Look, Mal," Archer stated firmly, "there's no petting on the Bridge." He wished he'd thought of that rule earlier in the morning.

            "No petting on the Bridge?" Mal repeated indignantly. He took another huge bite of apple. "That's horrible!"

            "And no eating, either," Archer added, scooting away as much as he could. "Mal, you're getting apple all over me." He glanced back at T'Pol for assistance, but she merely arched an eyebrow as if to say, _You laughed at my complaints when I had to watch him. There's no way I'm helping you out now._

            "Sorry," Mal told him, not sounding sorry at all. "Would you pet me now, please?"

            "I just said there's no petting on the Bridge," Archer snapped, getting irritable. "Didn't I just say that?"

            "I forgot," claimed Mal insolently. Archer gave him a dark look.

            "Perhaps the rules would be easier for Mal to remember if you were to post them in plain view," T'Pol suggested from her station. "Ensign Sato could draft a list." Was that his imagination, or did Hoshi just giggle?

            D----t, he was Jonathan Archer, Captain of Earth's first warp five starship. He could take charge of this situation. Even if his Bridge crew appeared to be mutinying.

            "Mal, I'm working now," Archer told him firmly. "If you want to remain on the Bridge, you must sit over there and be quiet. Otherwise, please leave."

            Mal looked him over, as though trying to assess whether Archer was serious or not. The Captain tried to project the aura that he was. Finally, and very slowly, Mal began to straighten up. "Well, I guess I _could_ go to—"

            Archer's tiny bubble of triumph was popped by Hoshi announcing, "Captain, we're being hailed. It's—"

            "It's Trip, it's Trip!" Mal shouted gleefully, scrambling down to the comm station.

            "There's no shouting on the Bridge, either," Archer informed him sullenly, wiping apple flecks from his uniform.

            "Hello, Trip! Can you hear me?" Mal asked loudly, speaking directly into the transmitter.

            There was a smile in Trip's voice. " _Yes, I can hear you, buddy_ ," he assured the other man. " _What're you doin' on the Bridge, anyway?_ "

            "It's snack time," Mal replied, as if that made perfect sense. Perhaps to Trip it did. "Guess what I'm having for snack. I'll give you a hint." Mal took a big, crunchy, juicy bite of apple and chewed it noisily.

            " _Um… pudding?_ " Trip guessed.

            Mal frowned at the comm. "No. Try again. It's a fruit."

            " _Hmm… Banana?_ "

            "No," Mal answered, appalled by Trip's lack of skill at this game.

            " _Is it apple…_ " Mal looked hopeful. "… _sauce?_ " He frowned again.

            "Commander Tucker," Archer cut in with some annoyance.

            " _Oh, hey there, Captain, wondered where you were_ ," Trip commented.

            Archer rolled his eyes. "Is anything wrong over there?"

            " _Nope, not a thing, Captain_." Trip sounded tired but excited. " _Everything's goin' fine, should be done with the repairs right on schedule. Pretty amazing ship, Captain._ "

            Archer smiled a little at that. "You'll have to tell us all about it when you get back."

            " _Yes, sir. Hey, Mal?_ "

            Mal perked up. "Yes? I'm right here!"

            " _I'm bringin' you back a present_ ," Trip promised. Mal's eyes widened; Archer was afraid he might squeal. " _But you're only gonna get it if you've been good. Have you been good so far?_ "

            "Oh, absolutely," Mal assured him passionately. "I've been marvelously good!" Archer looked as though he wanted to object.

            " _Glad to hear it_ ," Trip replied. " _Now get off the Bridge and quit botherin' the Captain_."

            "Oh, okay," Mal agreed easily. "Bye, Trip. I love you! Come home soon."

            " _I will_ ," Trip promised. " _Bye-bye_." And with that Mal left the Bridge. " _Is he gone?_ " Trip asked after a minute.

            Archer leaned back in his chair, relieved. "Yes. Thanks," he said wryly.

            " _No problem, Captain. I'll check in later, okay? Tucker out_."

            Deciding now was as good a time as any to vacate the premises for a bit, Archer stood and tried not to be too obvious about straightening the kink in his back. "I'll be in my Ready Room," he told T'Pol. "You have the Bridge."

            "Captain." Her tone was more a signal than an acknowledgement, and he looked over at her curiously. "I regret to inform you, you still have fruit on your uniform."

 

            "Is _that_ what you're having for lunch?"

            Mal's tone was so disdainful that Jon took a second look at the plate he'd chosen, in case there was mold or something on it (unlikely as that was in Chef's immaculate kitchen). But nope, it looked fine.

            "Yes, this is what I'm having," he confirmed to Mal, starting to move down the line.

            The other man was immobile. "It's tuna fish salad," he pointed out.

            Jon gave him a look. "Yes, it is."

            "I can't eat tuna fish salad. I can't eat fish. I can't eat seafood."

            Jon had, in fact, remembered that. "I know. You can get something else."

            Mal looked at him as though he'd suggested skipping lunch entirely—that is, with horror. "But I don't know what to get!" he finally articulated, voice rising.

            Jon glanced around the Mess Hall. They were a bit early for the main lunch crowd, but they definitely weren't alone. "Well, what else do you like here? There's ravioli, spinach salad, meatloaf…"

            Mal as shaking his head. "I don't know! I can't decide! I always get what Trip gets!"

            "Calm down, okay?" Jon advised. People were starting to stare. He tried to think like Mal—a difficult task to say the least. "Now, what would you get if Trip got tuna fish salad?"

            Mal stuck his lower lip out. "Trip wouldn't _get_ tuna fish salad, because he knows _I_ can't eat it!" he insisted peevishly.

            Now Jon was getting irritated as well. "Well, I want tuna fish," he asserted stubbornly. "Just get something else!"

            "But I don't _know_ what to get!" Mal repeated, in a loud whine.

            "Excuse me, sir," someone said, and Jon turned his glare on a steward. Not only were they disrupting the diners, they were holding up the line as well, he saw.

            "Yes?" Jon asked coldly, daring the man to actually chastise him.

            "I believe Mal is quite fond of the cheese ravioli," the steward continued mildly. And leadingly.

            "Oh? I am?" Mal questioned, as though he'd forgotten.

            Jon snatched up a plate of the pasta and put it down on Mal's tray with a bit of a rattle. "You are," he confirmed. "Thanks," he added to the steward, who nodded and moved off.

            "Oh, well, it _is_ like a little pocket of cheese," Mal agreed, sounding happier as he followed Jon down the line finally. "You're getting mashed potatoes?" he asked a moment later.

            "Problem with that?" Jon asked shortly.

            "Well, it's just that green beans are nice and pointy…" Mal noted hopefully.

            "I don't like green beans," Jon told him. "Why don't _you_ get green beans, and I'll get mashed potatoes?"

            Mal vacillated and Jon plunked a bowl of green beans down on his tray decisively. That seemed to be the action Mal wanted. "What about dessert?" he prodded, as Jon pulled away from the line.

            Jon hadn't even looked at the choices. "We'll come back for it later!" he replied sharply, thoroughly exasperated.

 

            Jon was feeling good. The ship was in good condition, the latest sensor upgrades were performing well, his crew's morale was high, and best of all—Mal had been fed and sent off to clean an access tube for a few hours, one of his favorite activities. Jon felt a twinge of guilt over the last thought—surely it wasn't right that he was so eager to be rid of Mal. Well, he didn't want to get _rid_ of him, Jon assured himself, squirming a bit in his command chair. It was just that he required so much attention, and Jon always felt like he wasn't quite doing the right thing with him, and, well, Jon was _kind_ of the Captain of the whole ship. He had a lot of other things he was supposed to focus on. Like the report in his hand he hadn't looked at in ten minutes.

            Sighing, Jon began reading again. He had just started to get into it when T'Pol spoke up from her science station.

            "Captain, I am detecting an unusual energy vibration in the EPS conduits," she reported, and Archer frowned. Just when his Chief Engineer, though next door, was eight hours away.

            "Can you pinpoint it?"

            "It appears to be resonating on the starboard side of the ship, mainly decks B, C, and D," T'Pol added, fingers commanding her instruments to perform. "The energy seems to be emanating from…" She looked up at Archer enigmatically. "…the F5 access tube."

            The Captain closed his eyes briefly. Right where he'd sent Mal off to, happily, after lunch. "Open a channel," he said to Hoshi. "Mal—"

            "— _he's the boogie-woogie bugle Trip from Company B!_ " Mal sang. Loudly.

            Archer winced and T'Pol looked like she wanted to. Mal paused, seemingly at the end of his song, and Jon opened his mouth to speak again.

            " _I wanna take my Trip to Risa/Wanna dance under the moons_ ," Mal went on, starting a new, slightly mangled tune. " _I wanna take my Trip to Risa/Where the pink sea-flowers bloom!_ "

            Jon shut his mouth, feeling slightly helpless against the aural onslaught. Not that Mal was a bad singer, necessarily, he was just—loud. He risked a glance at T'Pol and immediately wished he hadn't.

            " _I wanna take—I wanna take—I wanna take—I wanna take_ ," Mal continued obliviously, singing both parts of the harmony. " _Oh, no! Don't say never!/Oh, no! He's the best Trip ever!_ "

            Hoshi let out a strangled giggle and Travis's shoulders were shaking. Mal seemed to be building towards his big finale and Jon thought maybe he would just let—He caught T'Pol's eye. His First Officer was giving him a look that said, _I will leap over this console and strangle you if you don't shut him up._ In a Vulcan-like way, of course.

            "Mal!" Jon exclaimed suddenly, more out of a sense of self-preservation than anything else.

            Mal broke off singing. " _Captain Archer?_ " he asked with some confusion. " _Where are you?_ "

            "The Bridge, Mal," Archer replied patiently.

            " _Oh, of course_ ," Mal agreed. " _D'you want me to bring you some coffee? Or a snack?_ "

            "No, thank you—"

            " _Or shall I clean you?_ " Mal went on helpfully. " _Sometimes Trip needs to be cleaned a bit this time of day_ —"

            "How's the access tube coming, Mal?" Archer interrupted, before they could all learn more than they wanted to about Commander Tucker.

            " _Oh, it's_ quite _filthy_ ," Mal assured him, sounding pleased. " _But I shall work diligently until it's clean, Captain._ "

            "I'm glad to hear that, Mal," Archer told him. "About the, er, singing—"

            " _Oh, yes!_ " Mal exclaimed in delight. " _Normally when I'm cleaning access tubes, I like to hum softly to myself, you see. But today, I felt like singing!_ " He ended with a musical flourish. And an uncontrolled giggle. And a hiccup.

            T'Pol's tone was frosty enough to ice up her keypad. "Mal, have you been consuming raw milk products?" Archer suddenly failed to meet her gaze.

            " _No, of_ course _not, Commander T'Pol!_ " Mal asserted indignantly. " _Except of course for the ice cream Captain Archer gave me at lunch._ "

            Jon hunched down in his chair, turning slightly from his First Officer's chastising gaze. "Well, he really wanted some, and I thought one little bowl wouldn't…" He trailed off lamely.

            T'Pol dangled him for a moment, then spoke crisply over the comm. "Mal, your singing is causing disruptive energy vibrations. Please desist."

            " _You want me to stop singing?_ " Mal repeated. He sounded upset, and Jon sighed.

            "Look, Mal, you can't sing in an access tube when the EPS conduit is open," he tried to explain. This was the sort of thing they didn't include in those thick engineering manuals, apparently. "Just—hum softly, okay?" He really wanted this whole scene to be over. H—l, he wanted the whole _mission_ to be over, with Trip back aboard and Mal safely in his custody.

            " _But you_ said _I could sing!_ " Mal insisted, and it was definitely a whine.

            "No I didn't," Archer contradicted, frowning.

            " _Oh, well, maybe you didn't_ ," Mal conceded easily. " _I can't remember_." His tone became petulant. " _I never forget what_ Trip _tells me_." Jon rolled his eyes. Mal sniffed, then moaned a bit. " _I don't feel good_ …"

            Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and stood, resignedly. "Why don't I meet you in Sickbay, Mal?"

            " _I don't want to go to Sickbay!_ " Mal whimpered. " _I want to stay here and clean my access tube._ "

            Jon was already in the lift, giving T'Pol the nod to take over. "Mal, I'm coming down there," he announced, just before the doors shut.

            " _But I don't want to leave!_ " Mal continued to protest. " _I just don't feel good. My stomach hurts. I think it was the ice cream you gave me. Trip says I can't have ice_ —" With a flick of her finger T'Pol cut the comm, leaving the Bridge in silence.

 

            "Oh, this is so exciting!" Mal enthused. "I love Movie Night!"

            "Well, good," Jon replied, sincere but a little worn out. Just one day of looking after Mal had exhausted him, and he definitely had acquired a new level of respect for Trip. Despite the engineer's grumbling, he had made Mal's care look easier than it really was, at least in Jon's opinion.

            Jon guided them towards the middle of the group of chairs set up in neat rows in the Mess Hall, facing the large screen. He didn't get around to attending Movie Night as often as he'd like, however much he admonished other people—like T'Pol—to go as a way of fraternizing with the crew. Part of it had to do with his busy schedule. But part of it had to do with the movies Trip tended to select. Cheesy old horror movies and melodramas, with the occasional action flick to satisfy Marcus—would it kill him to throw in a good, solid sports movie sometime? Or even a Western—Jon knew Trip loved Westerns.

            Mal bounced along at Jon's heels like a puppy that was shy but eager at the same time. Jon nodded his response to some friendly hellos he received from the crew and chose a mid-row chair with a good view. "How about here?"

            "Ooh, how nice!" Mal dropped into the seat next to Jon. "Trip and I usually sit at the very back!"

            Jon frowned in confusion. "Really? Why is—" Mal popped up on his knees in the chair, getting comfortable—and completely blocking the view of the crewmember seated behind him. There was a muttered grumble, which Mal seemed not to hear, and the crewman moved.

            "Shall we have a snack?" Mal asked leadingly, eyeing the bags of popcorn being passed out by the stewards.

            Jon snagged two and handed one to the dark-haired man. "Here you go."

            "Ooh, Trip never lets me have popcorn!" Mal replied excitedly, eyes widening in delight.

            Jon frowned again. "Why not?"

            "Oh, I've no idea," Mal shrugged, dislodging more than a handful of kernels onto the floor with the motion.

            Jon watched him dubiously and was about to inquire further, but the lights blinked and lowered and the screen lit up. Jon couldn't remember what movie was showing; Mal had just really wanted to go so Jon had agreed, feeling a little sorry for the other man. Mal had apparently spent most of the afternoon by himself in the quarters he shared with Trip, waiting for his ice cream-induced nausea to pass. And Mal wasn't someone who enjoyed being by himself for long. Jon made a mental note to ask him what he'd been up to all afternoon—after the movie, of course.

            Upbeat music blared from the speaker, announcing the beginning of the show. It seemed vaguely familiar to Jon—something rather old, he thought. " _Nothing you could say/Can tear me away from my guy_ ," cooed a female voice. And then Trip's grinning face appeared on the screen.

            " _Nothing you could do/'Cause I'm stuck like glue to my guy_ ," continued the music. More photos of Trip—from shore leaves, crew parties, even some Jon recognized as pre- _Enterprise_ —danced across the screen, appearing and disappearing in time to the music. Once he'd picked his jaw up off the floor Jon turned on Mal—the only possible culprit for this surprise musical tribute.

            " _Nothing you can do/Could make me untrue to my guy_ …" Mal was watching the screen critically, mouthing the words a little. Well, at least he wasn't singing along, Jon thought a bit helplessly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he imagined how Trip was going to react to this later. Mal's hands twitched with the beat of the song and he nodded to himself with satisfaction at a particularly skillful photo transition.

            " _I gave my guy my word of honor/To be faithful and I'm gonna_ …" Mal might have been able to ignore the murmurs and snickers from the audience around them, but Jon couldn't. He risked a glance sideways and realized that people weren't staring at Mal (when they could take their eyes off the screen, that is)—they were staring at _him_. For an instant Jon was surprised—surely no one thought that _he_ was responsible for—

            Ah, but he _was_ responsible, wasn't he? Jon was responsible for Mal in Trip's absence. And therefore he was responsible for anything Mal did—such as crimes against dignity and good taste.

            " _As a matter of opinion I think he's tops/My opinion is he's the cream of the crop_ …" Jon straightened in his seat and tried to face the screen with serious resolve, as if he'd known about this the whole time and approved of it. Unfortunately this was right when a picture of Trip in the bathtub appeared in the montage—only about five years old, of course, but still. Mal had apparently delved into all the old family photos Trip had with him.

            " _As a matter of taste to be exact/He's my ideal as a matter of fact_ …" No wonder Mal had been so quiet all afternoon. He'd been well occupied. A photo of Trip doubled onscreen and flipped to its mirror image, then both copies faded to tasteful black and white before sliding away to make room for more.

            " _He may not be a movie star/But when it comes to being happy we are_ …" Mal had a contented smile on his face, for a moment at least, and Jon instantly knew that if anyone in the room had the nerve to raise a protest, they would be shut down immediately by their Captain. Mal was the happiest he'd been all day, and as for Trip, well, he'd been through worse. Marginally.

            " _There's not a man today/Who could take me away from my guy_ ," finished the singer, the last notes—and photo—fading away slowly. It was really just the right length—long enough that no one would believe they had only imagined it, but short enough that the novelty didn't wear off and leave the audience irritated. Another quick flicker, and the credits of the movie began.

            "Popcorn?" Mal asked casually, offering his bag to Jon and shaking kernels into his lap in the process.

            Jon stared hard at him, searching for any hint that he understood what he'd just done. He saw none. "No, thank you," Jon replied levelly, lifting his own bag.

            "I do hope it's not a _scary_ movie," Mal went on, cramming a handful of popcorn into his mouth. At least that much more tumbled to the ground.

            "Do you know what the title is?" Jon whispered back, as the unhelpful credits continued.

            " _Night of the Living Dead_ ," Mal told him easily, and Jon gave him a look of alarm.

            Ten minutes later they were walking down the quiet hallway. "That was _so_ scary!" Mal remarked, relieved to have escaped.

            "It wasn't, really," Jon countered mildly, still picking bits of popcorn out of his hair from the two bags Mal had upended on him. "Not yet, anyway."

            "What shall we do now?" Mal asked cheerfully. "Shall we sit on the bed together and read a book?"

            "Er, well, if we aren't going to watch the movie—" Mal shook his head emphatically. "—then I really ought to catch up on some paperwork…"

            "Hooray!" Mal exclaimed, to Jon's surprise. "I _love_ paperwork. I'm _so_ good at paperwork. I help Trip _all_ the time. You'll see how helpful I can be…" Jon just sighed.


	2. Chapter 2

_Wednesday morning_

            _Hey, buddy._

            "Trip!" Mal whispered the name in the darkness of Jon's cabin, sniffling a bit as he did so.

            _Did you have a bad dream? I thought maybe you did._

            "Oh, I did, Trip, I had _such_ a bad dream!" A snuffle from behind him made Mal glance quickly over his shoulder. Jon seemed to be asleep still, with Porthos of all things curled up on the edge of the mattress. Mal decided to blame his nightmare on the breathing of the strange creature in the bed.

            _Well, I wish I was there with you, buddy,_ Trip continued, across the chasm between the two ships. _I'm not gettin' much sleep here myself._

            Mal's eyes began to tear up afresh and he curled more tightly into a ball away from Jon. "Oh, Trip, I wish you would come home! I miss you so much!" He knew Trip couldn't hear him, but it felt good to talk to him just the same.

            _Look, why don't you try wakin' Jon up, if you haven't already?_ Trip suggested. _Well, I know he's not me, but he'll give you a hug._ Mal shook his head. Right now he didn't want a hug from anyone but Trip. Especially not anyone who let a strange creature sleep in the bed. _I'm gonna try and go back to sleep now, buddy,_ Trip continued. _I'll call you later, okay?_

            "Okay, Trip," Mal whimpered quietly.

 

            Archer smiled at the person seated at the table with him and took a bite of his breakfast. The lieutenant smiled nervously in return and nibbled at his toast.

            "How's your omelet?" the Captain asked cheerfully, reaching for his glass of juice.

            "Oh, it's, uh, it's fine, sir," Lt. Alvaro assured him, hurriedly scooping some up. "It's very good."

            "Well, mine isn't," said a disagreeable voice from the floor. Archer gave Alvaro a tight smile and glanced over at Mal. "What are these little green circles? They're sour. And they taste like metal!"

            Jon leaned down on the other side of the table from Lt. Alvaro, who politely occupied himself with his food. "Those are olives, Mal," he explained quietly, trying to remain patient. "You _said_ you liked them."

            "Well, they aren't what I thought they were," Mal replied, not at all quietly. "You didn't explain them to me properly."

            "If you don't like them," Jon told him tightly, "pick them out." He straightened back up and turned to his officer. "So, Lieutenant, how are things going in Exobiology?"

            "Oh, uh, fine, sir," the younger man answered, then lapsed into silence.

            Jon rolled his eyes, but only inwardly. This guy was worse than Marcus when it came to breakfast with the Captain. Was Jon really so intimidating that people couldn't even eat an omelet in his presence?

            "That Minshara-class planet we visited last week must have kept you guys pretty busy," Archer commented leadingly.

            "Oh, yes, sir," Alvaro answered eagerly, finally warming up. "Yes, sir, we've been analyzing the data and samples very thoroughly."

            "Find anything interesting?"

            "Well, sir, I've been preparing a report for you," Alvaro told him, "but probably the most surprising finding is—"

            "My omelet hasn't enough cheese," Mal complained. Archer gave his officer an apologetic smile and glanced over at the man on the floor. "I've picked all the nasty, metallic green olive circles out, and now I discover, there isn't enough cheese!"

            Archer leaned down again and tried to speak under his breath. "Mal, I explained to you that I was going to be having breakfast with Lt. Alvaro this morning," Jon reminded him. Mal nodded. "And we agreed that you could join us, _if_ you were quiet and well-behaved." Mal gave him a look as if to say, _And?_ "And you're _not_ being quiet and well-behaved."

            "But there isn't enough cheese on my omelet," Mal repeated reasonably, as if this were more than enough justification. "I like my omelet to be cheesy and gooey and delicious. And this hasn't enough cheese, and there's little metal olive circles, and it's too _eggy_!"

            Jon gave him what he hoped was a serious look. "If you don't like the omelet, don't eat it. Eat your toast instead," he added, seeing the question in Mal's face. He sat back up and faced his officer again. "You were saying, Lieutenant?"

            "Uh, well, sir, the most surprising thing about the biological data was that…"

            This was more like it. This was what Jon had been hoping for. He'd known that Rafael Alvaro was an excellent officer; that was why he'd chosen him to head _Enterprise_ 's Exobiology department. But he _hadn't_ known, until now, that the man was a former college water polo player and avid fan of the sport.

            "Really?" Archer said eagerly. "Have you been following the tournament? Who's your favorite?"

            "Well, I really think that—"

            A tug on Jon's arm interrupted them. Mal knelt on the floor expectantly. "Can I have your toast?" he asked politely.

            "What? No," Jon replied, slightly peeved. He turned back to Alvaro.

            "But I'm hungry!" Mal wailed suddenly, making them both jump. "I couldn't eat my omelet and I already ate my toast and I haven't anything else and I'm so hungry!"

            "Mal!" Jon snapped. "Be quiet! We'll discuss this _later_."

            Mal glared at him, but Jon had already turned away—again—and was trying to recapture the rapport he'd had with Alvaro. Unfortunately, it was difficult to have a friendly conversation while someone knelt sullenly in the corner, muttering to himself occasionally.

 

            Phlox's Pyrithian bat was getting bored with the dried snow beetles he'd packed for her meals. Was there any chance they'd be stopping at a Minshara-class planet where he could pick up a few fresh specimens?

            The laundry facility was reporting a sharp increase in the number of uniforms they received for cleaning. T'Pol had calculated that this directly correlated with Chef's introduction of a food item known as "sloppy joes" and recommended this particular dish be banned to conserve laundering resources.

            Marcus felt security had gotten too lax aboard ship (again). He had a fifteen-point plan outlining increased security—

            Jennings shot the ball desperately from the corner, there was no way it was going to—Score! And Stanford trounces Alabama State once again!

            The comm beeped twice before Jon guiltily paused his water polo game and answered, "Yes?"

            " _I apologize for interrupting your work, Captain_ ," T'Pol began, sounding the tiniest bit sarcastic (or was that Archer's paranoia?), " _but Mal is on the Bridge and wishes to speak with you_."

            Jon glanced immediately at the chrono. Was it mid-morning snack time already? Actually, it was a bit early. "Okay, I'll be right out."

            Mal was rocking back and forth on his heels behind the command chair—just on the edge of T'Pol's blind spot, Jon judged, and the twitch was probably driving the Vulcan crazy. Not that she would ever admit to it, of course. Jon suppressed a smirk and raised his hand to prevent the First Officer from ceding the chair to him. If he wasn't sitting, he reasoned, Mal couldn't climb all over him.

            "So, Mal, what've you—" Jon trailed off when he realized that Mal was carrying not one but _three_ different food items. "What's all this?"

            "Oh, this is a piece of cherry pie," Mal answered cheerfully, indicating one plate. He balanced them all expertly. "And here we have some chocolate chip cookies. And _these_ ," he finished triumphantly, "are carrot sticks!"

            Jon waited until he was done. "And why are you carrying all of them?" he inquired.

            "Well, it's snack time, you see," Mal explained.

            Jon paused. Nothing more seemed to be forthcoming. "And?" he prompted.

            "And, I couldn't decide what to eat for snack," Mal clarified, his tone indicating he thought this should be obvious.

            "So you brought all the food to the Bridge," Jon stated flatly.

            Mal seemed to be growing annoyed. "Yes, Captain, so you could decide which food item I should have for snack!"

            Jon would not be rushed. This might be one of those 'teaching moments' T'Pol kept talking about. "What do you do with the other two things?" he asked curiously.

            Mal frowned at him. "What d'you mean?"

            "Well, I pick one of these three things for you to eat," Jon reiterated, summoning all the patience he possessed. "What happens to the other two?"

            "Ohhhh," Mal responded, finally getting it. Or perhaps not. "I put them back in the Mess Hall."

            T'Pol, who had been pretending to ignore them with admirable skill, turned towards them half a degree. "You put them back in the Mess Hall," Jon repeated to Mal.

            The other man was getting nervous now. "Well, yes. I put them right back in the food case where I got them."

            T'Pol now turned three degrees towards them and Hoshi grimaced visibly. "Mal, you can't just carry food all over the ship, then put it back for anyone to eat," Jon tried to explain, coming to the point. "It's—unsanitary."

            He might as well have accused T'Pol of being illogical or Marcus of being reckless. Mal drew back slightly in horror. "Unsanitary?" he repeated, aghast. " _Unsanitary?!_ "

            Jon couldn't tell if he was angry about the judgment or just in shock. "Yes," he replied firmly. "I mean, think of all the… dust and chemicals and radiation the food has been exposed to as you walked all over the ship with it." He wished he could be more specific, but it just seemed like one of those things that was self-evident.

            "There are also many areas of the ship in which it is inadvisable to accumulate food particles," T'Pol added, turning fully towards them now. "For example, the Bridge, the Armory, and most sections of Engineering."

            Jon could tell from the change in Mal's posture that T'Pol had laid it on too thick with her last remark. He straightened up and narrowed his eyes at both of them. "I eat in Engineering all the time, and I often bring different snack items to Trip to choose from," he stated steadily. "And _Trip_ never said there was anything wrong with it!"

            Jon sighed. He might be _kind of_ the Captain of the whole ship, but when it came to matters of the utmost importance—like snacks—Trip's word was the only one that counted with Mal. "Well, as long as Trip isn't here—" he began, and Mal heaved a sudden melancholy sigh, breathing all over the proposed snack items, "—don't carry food around the ship unless you intend to eat it all, okay?" He made a mental note to mention this to Trip as soon as this interminable mission was complete.

            "Okay, Captain Archer," Mal agreed, subdued. Jon had expected him to keep protesting, but it seemed the fight had gone out of him.

            They stood in silence for a moment, Jon feeling increasingly awkward. "Er, so, I have to pick of these things for you to eat?" Mal nodded, far less enthused than usual. Jon didn't know if the restriction on food was to blame, or the reminder of Trip's absence. Jon applied himself to a fair evaluation of the food items, wanting to make a good choice for Mal. Considering what they were the judgment didn't take long. "I think you should have the carrot sticks," Jon pronounced. Then he looked quickly at Mal. "Is that okay?"

            "Yes, thank you, Captain Archer," Mal replied politely but without excitement. "I _do_ like carrot sticks," he added, seeing Jon's uncertain expression, "and, I'm quite hungry, as I only had toast for breakfast, after all."

            Jon rolled his eyes at the reminder of their less-than-pleasant morning meal. "Whoa, where are you going?" he asked suddenly, as Mal turned back towards the lift.

            "I was going to put the rest of the food back in the Mess Hall," Mal replied, "and to eat my snack." He brightened. "D'you want me to stay here and eat my snack with _you_? Would _you_ like a snack as well?"

            "Mal, what did I just tell you about putting food back in the Mess Hall after you've carried it all over the ship?" Jon asked with exasperation.

            Mal thought about it. "You said it was _unsanitary_ ," he remembered, with a grimace.

            Jon could see he would have to solve this problem on his own. "Give me the cherry pie," he instructed.

            "Oh, do you like cherry pie for a morning snack, too, Captain Archer?" Mal asked hopefully, handing over the pie. "Trip says, he thinks it's too sweet—"

            Jon was casting his gaze around the Bridge, looking for a victim. "Lt. Marcus!" he said suddenly, interrupting Mal. The Tactical Officer looked up from his station, where he was no doubt logging yet more security violations to pester the Captain about. "You like cherry pie, don't you?"

            "Uh, well, sir—" Marcus hesitated. Archer gave him a look remarkably reminiscent of Marcus's first drill sergeant. "Sir, yes sir!" he replied crisply, straightening up.

            "Good. Here. Eat this," Jon ordered, walking the piece of pie over to him.

            Marcus stared at the sticky, sugary treat. "Yes, sir."

            Jon needed one more 'volunteer.' "Hoshi!" The Comm Officer jumped and slowly wheeled around to face him. "You like chocolate chip cookies, don't you?"

            "Well, yes, in general, sir," Hoshi agreed slowly, "but it's a little early for me just now—"

            "Take the cookies to Hoshi," Jon directed Mal, who did so promptly.

            "Thanks," she told Mal with a wan smile, accepting the plate.

            "Hey, can I have one?" whispered Travis eagerly.

            Hoshi glanced back towards the Captain, unsure of what the rules regarding morning snack time were, and was saved from answering by the beep of her console. "We're being—"

            "Trip! It's Trip, it's Trip!" Mal cut in excitedly, peering into the transmitter as though he could see his friend on the other end. "Hello, Trip! Can you hear me?"

            " _I can hear you just fine, buddy_ ," Trip assured him, his easy-going manner instantly soothing to the other man. " _What's for snack today?_ "

            "Well, I'm having carrot sticks," Mal replied, sounding a bit put out. "I brought three things to Captain Archer to choose from, you see, carrot sticks, cherry pie, and chocolate chip cookies."

            " _Right_ ," Trip agreed, following so far.

            "And he told me it was _unsanitary_ to bring the food to him!" Mal's voice was rich with indignation and Jon rolled his eyes in the background.

            " _Unsanitary?_ " Trip repeated with confusion. " _How's that?_ "

            Mal waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, I don't know, some silly thing about the food being _dusty_ when it got back to the Mess Hall." Jon took his chair back from T'Pol, feeling the need for reassurance of his command at this point.

            " _But the food hardly ever gets back to the Mess Hall_ ," Trip countered. Jon frowned, confused, and was about to speak when Mal continued.

            "I know!" he agreed with Trip. "I _thought_ he would do what _you_ do, Trip, and say I could have all _three_ snack items for snack, because I'm so awfully hungry, Trip, I only had _toast_ for breakfast—"

            "Hey!" Jon protested from his chair. "You never said anything about—"

            Mal ignored him. "—but instead he gave the cherry pie to Lt. Marcus and Hoshi took the chocolate chip cookies—"

            "I didn't even _want_ the cookies!" Hoshi interjected.

            "—and now all I've got is carrot sticks and I wish you would just come home soon, Trip," Mal finished mournfully, resting his head on the console beside the transmitter. Jon closed his mouth on the objection he was about to make, seeing the loneliness on Mal's face. This was all very difficult for him, Jon reminded himself. Hoshi patted Mal's head consolingly.

            " _Now listen up, buddy_ ," Trip began firmly. Jon wondered if maybe he should suggest a more private setting for this pep talk, but then he realized Trip hadn't continued to speak—out loud, anyway. He had his own private channel to Mal, after all.

            The dark-haired man was nodding dutifully at the silence. "Yes, Trip. Yes, of _course_ , Trip. Oh, but Trip—No, no, I won't, Trip."

            " _So why don't you take your snack down to Engineering and see what Lt. Hess has for you to do?_ " Trip finally suggested aloud.

            "Yes, Trip," Mal agreed, rising from the floor near Hoshi. "I love you, Trip! Don't forget about me!"

            " _I could never forget about you_ ," Trip assured him. " _Now go on_."

            "Okay." Mal did not exactly dance lightly off the Bridge with his carrot sticks, but he _did_ leave. Jon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to think what to say to Trip now. Maybe he should have Phlox investigate the new medical phenomenon he'd discovered—call it a 'Mal-graine.'

 

            Jon looked over his lunch choices. Then he looked back at Mal. "Anything you'd prefer?" he asked dryly, determined to learn from his mistakes the previous day.

            "Oh, whatever _you_ want would be fine," Mal replied, apparently sincere. Jon knew it would do no good to doubt him aloud.

            There was a plate of grilled salmon out, juicy and pink and tempting. It would be perfect with Chef's seasoned wild rice. Jon took another look at Mal, who watched him expectantly, and grabbed a small pepperoni pizza instead. Mal took the same, without comment.

            Jon chose a small table at the back of the Mess Hall, near the door to the Captain's Mess. He only ate in his private dining room on special occasions, when he wanted a quieter setting. He was perfectly content to have lunch with the rest of the crew in the main Mess Hall today—but recent experience had shown him that it paid to have a handy exit nearby when one was dealing with Mal.

            "Ooh, this is so nice," Mal commented happily, popping up on his knees in the chair opposite Jon. Jon wasn't used to dining with the other man sitting at his same level—or a bit higher, even. He hoped whatever funk Mal had been in all morning had worn off finally.

            "So what have you been doing in…" Jon broke off his inquiry as Mal scrutinized his pizza closely. "Something wrong?"

            "No," Mal answered distractedly. "I'm just looking for the perfect—aha!" He carefully peeled one round pepperoni slice from the pizza and blotted it with his napkin. Then he began waving it dramatically through the air, accompanied by loud swooping sounds.

            Jon grabbed his wrist, glancing around at the curious onlookers. "Mal!" he hissed. "Don't play with your food!"

            Mal gave him a look of pure indignation. "I'm not _playing_ with it!" he insisted. "I'm giving thanks to the Great Pepperoni Tree!"

            Jon released Mal's arm and blinked at him for a moment. "What?"

            "Well, Trip explained to me that pepperoni comes from the Great Pepperoni Tree, you see," Mal revealed knowledgeably. "So before we eat any pepperoni, we really ought to give thanks to the Great Pepperoni Tree for its produce, like this." And he began the swooping again.

            Suddenly it was clear to Jon why Trip had looked a little wild-eyed and convinced him to change the menu to chicken wings a few weeks ago, when Jon had suggested pizza and water polo with Mal in attendance. "Uh, Mal," he began tactfully, stilling the other man again, "perhaps you could do that more quietly? We don't want to impose your, er, religious beliefs on anyone else, you know."

            Mal nodded his understanding and finished waving his pepperoni slice around quietly. "Normally we only eat pepperoni in Trip's office, when there's no one else around," he explained to Archer, giving the slice of meat a final flourish before popping it in his mouth.

            "A common mistake," Jon assured him.

 

            T'Pol was happy as a clam studying her giant cloud of space dust. If clams could be happy, and if Vulcans could be happy. Or would express their happiness. Come to think of it, why _did_ the expression go, 'happy as a clam'? As far as Jon knew, clams weren't particularly emotional creatures. Why not, 'happy as a beagle with a block of cheddar'? As one random example.

            Jon spent several minutes on this line of thought, then realized what he was doing and abruptly stopped himself. But the activity seemed to appropriately sum up the afternoon on the Bridge, as T'Pol worked diligently at her station and everyone else struggled to stay upright. Jon started trying to think of an appropriate metaphor involving boredom and beagles when suddenly the comm beeped.

            "It's Lt. Hess, Captain," Hoshi reported after a moment, sounding slightly concerned. "She says she just sent Mal to Sickbay with a minor injury."

            Jon frowned. "What happened?" He was afraid it might have come out more like, 'What now?'

            "I think he hurt his hand while doing some repairs," Hoshi conveyed.

            "Okay," Jon sighed. He didn't mean to be a bad caretaker. But Mal was taking a _lot_ more care than he had estimated. "I'll go down and see him." It was better than sitting on the Bridge, slowly melting into his chair, he supposed. As he reached the lift he turned at the last moment and added, "T'Pol, why don't you come, too?" It was an impulsive invitation as he realized he didn't want to face an injured Mal alone.

            The Vulcan looked up from her instruments with just the tiniest flicker of irritation at the interruption to her work. Then she schooled her features admirably and stood. "As you wish, Captain." Jon could still feel the chill all the way to Sickbay, though.

            They pushed through the transparent doors and immediately located Mal sitting on a biobed, fussing and fretting while Dr. Phlox tried to treat him. "Come along now, Mal," the doctor was saying soothingly. "Just hold still and let me examine you, and we'll get this taken care of."

            Mal refused to be placated, however. "My hand hurts and I'm hungry and I had a bad dream and I want Tri-i-ip!" he wailed. Then he threw his head back and began to howl.

            Jon immediately put his hands over his ears. "This ever happen to you?" he shouted at T'Pol over the din.

            "Only once or twice—per day," the Vulcan answered grimly.

            "Please, Mal, you're frightening the animals!" Phlox tried.

            "What did you do about it?" Jon questioned her.

            "Sedatives."

            Jon gave T'Pol a look, hoping she was somehow joking. At any rate, he certainly wasn't going to start drugging Mal. Not without good reason, anyway. Purposefully he strode over to the biobed where the dark-haired man sat.

            "Mal!" Jon said firmly.

            Mal paused his noise—just long enough to take a deep breath and start wailing afresh. Suddenly inspired, Jon turned to Phlox looking for an object Mal might be comforted by. Phlox fumbled for a moment, then triumphantly produced one and handed it to the Captain.

            Jon brandished the item in front of Mal's face. "Sucker!"

            Mal broke off his noise, mercifully, and reluctantly accepted the orange candy on a stick. He had quieted, which was the first goal; but the expression on his face was pure misery. Jon softened a bit—he couldn't believe Mal was just being purposefully difficult when he saw the real tears glistening in his blue-grey eyes. Who really understood what the bond between Trip and Mal was like, or how hard it was for Mal to be without the other man?

            "Now look, Mal," Jon began in a gentle but firm tone, placing his hands on Mal's shoulders. Mal melted into him immediately, resting his head against Jon's chest, sucker stick bobbing in his mouth. Jon gave in and completed the embrace. "Now, do you think Trip would want you behaving this way? I don't think so."

            Mal sniffled. "Trip likes it when I miss him a little," he said, his voice watery. "But he would say I'm being too loud."

            "Well we wouldn't want to do anything that Trip wouldn't like, would we?" Jon prompted soothingly, rubbing Mal's back.

            "No," Mal agreed. "I shouldn't like to do that."

            Jon encouraged him to sit back so they could make eye contact. "Now I know you're upset, and I know you miss Trip," Jon assured him. "But he's doing a very important job right now, and he'll be back soon. I'm sure he misses you, too, don't you think?" Mal of all people should know.

            Mal nodded. "But not like _I_ miss _him_!"

            "I know, I know," Jon agreed. "Look, why don't we have a special treat tonight?" Mal perked up a bit. "What would you like to do?"

            "Oh, I don't know," Mal sighed unhelpfully.

            Jon racked his brains for the activities Trip used when Mal was upset. "Would you like to watch a movie in my quarters?"

            Mal's eyes widened in delight. "A movie? Not a _scary_ movie, though? A movie with singing and dancing and people wearing tilted shoes?"

            "You got it," Jon promised, glad that Mal couldn't read _his_ emotions at the idea of sitting through a corny old musical. "And maybe we could have a snack, too," he added, knowing that was sure to please.

            It did. "Ooh, shall we have hot cocoa?" Mal suggested eagerly. "And pudding? And fruit?"

            "Anything you want," Jon told him, "as long as it's not bad for you."

            Mal threw his arms around Jon and squeezed. "Oh, Captain Archer, you're so good to me! You take such good care of me!" Jon felt a bit warm at the praise, and a bit guilty as well, considering the thoughts he'd been harboring on the way to Sickbay.

            Mal seemed content to hug Jon all day, rubbing his nose against the other man's chest; but Jon had a condition to impose (and dignity to retain, if possible). "We'll have a special treat tonight, Mal," he reiterated sternly, "but until then, I have work to do, and you can't interrupt me, understand?" Mal nodded dutifully. "So I'll do my work, and you'll occupy yourself quietly according to the Doctor's instructions, and tonight we'll have our treat, alright?"

            Mal nodded solemnly, sniffing up the last dregs of tears. "I shall be very good," he vowed. Jon would believe it when he saw it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to write a few scenes in between this and the next part, but never did.


	3. Chapter 3

            Mal was trying hard to be enthusiastic. Normally this wasn't a difficult thing for him, as his own curiosity and Trip's natural exuberance buoyed him through each day. But it was harder to enjoy things when Trip wasn't around. Captain Archer was trying his best to take his place, but it just wasn't the same.

            He liked playing with the remote-controlled ball Trip had made for him. Even if he didn't think he wanted to, when the little ball started twitching and spinning, Mal just couldn't help himself. And all the time he was racing around the cargo bay, clambering over crates and squeezing between barrels, he was thinking, _I must catch the little ball. I must catch the little ball and bring it to Trip! Trip will be so proud of me!_ Well, he couldn't bring it to Trip if Trip was a billion lightyears (eight hundred meters) away, could he? And would Captain Archer really be proud of him the same way Trip would be? Would it feel like a soft ray of sunshine pouring over Mal, warming him all the way through? Mal doubted it.

            Plus, there was Porthos.

            As if reading his mind—and wasn't _that_ a scary thought—the little beagle barked at Mal as they headed down the corridor. Mal gave him a narrow, suspicious look but smoothed it over when Captain Archer looked back at them with a grin. "That's right, Porthos, this is going to be fun, isn't it?" he asserted hopefully. Mal forced a smile to his face and nodded when the Captain glanced at him as well.

            The Captain opened the door to the cargo bay and Porthos skipped over the threshold with a little hop. Mal followed in his wake, glad the larger space of the cargo bay dissipated the doggy smell a bit. "Okay," Captain Archer announced, looking around the room speculatively. No one working in here, no hazardous or fragile materials, plenty of open space. Mal noted that some of the cargo containers had been shuffled around since he'd last been here with Trip—there were several new stacks that could be fun and challenging to climb. He began to feel slightly excited about the activity.

            "Well, here we go." Captain Archer drew the ball from his pocket and set it down on the cargo bay floor. Mal's muscles tensed in anticipation. Then Porthos ran over and started nosing and licking the ball, and Mal's face wrinkled in disgust. Captain Archer frowned at Trip's complicated control panel, then pressed a switch and sent the ball shooting off straight ahead. Porthos yelped and darted after it. Mal did not.

            "Something wrong, Mal?" the Captain asked him, trying to keep the ball moving back and forth for Porthos.

            "Well, it's just—" Porthos caught the ball in his teeth and trotted it triumphantly back to his master, dropping it at his feet.

            The Captain immediately dropped to his knees, rubbing the beagle's small head and floppy ears. "Good boy! Good boy!" He looked back up at Mal expectantly.

            "It's got dog slobber on it," Mal remarked, a bit more crossly than he'd intended.

            The Captain sighed and Mal felt badly about his comment, though he didn't know how else he could have put it. The ball had dog slobber on it. That was a fact. Captain Archer didn't seem to think there was a problem with dog slobber on various objects, like hands, clothes, and toothbrushes, but Mal most certainly did.

            The Captain wrested the ball away from Porthos and wiped it on his faded t-shirt. Mal cringed at the clothing abuse; _that_ would have to be laundered as soon as they returned to the cabin. Captain Archer looked at Mal questioningly and Mal shrugged. Alright, perhaps he could _pretend_ the ball had never felt the touch of a canine tongue. And then sanitize it later. The Captain nodded and set the ball back on the ground.

            Porthos ran to it immediately and drooled on it afresh.

            Captain Archer met Mal's eyes sheepishly and the dark-haired man narrowly avoided heaving a sigh. Trip would want him to be flexible, and to not make the Captain feel inadequate. So Mal smiled. "It's alright, Captain Archer," he declared, trying to sound cheerful. "I never catch the ball anyway!"

            The Captain looked a bit nervous at these words instead of relieved, but there was only so much Mal could do. The ball started to move again as the Captain manipulated the controller, and Porthos barked happily as he chased it again. Mal jogged after it as well, but overtook the ball quickly (his legs being a bit longer than Porthos's). Since Mal had no intention of _touching_ the ball, he merely slowed his pace to keep it ahead of him, hoping the Captain hadn't noticed.

            He had. "Sorry, I'm not sure where the speed control is," he confessed, frowning at the remote in his hands. Not anticipating that the toy would be used by anyone but himself, Trip hadn't labeled any of the buttons, levers, or dials. "Maybe… this?"

            The ball shot straight up in the air, narrowly missing Mal's head. "Ooh, sorry," the Captain apologized. The ball then zinged sideways instead of down, striking a cargo container harder enough to rock it. It ricocheted back towards the Captain, going so fast it blurred. And Mal had an idea that the Captain wasn't exactly sure where the brake was, either.

            Well, Trip would probably want Mal to protect the Captain if he could, so Mal dashed back across the cargo bay and snatched the ball out of the air just centimeters from Captain Archer's face. He held onto the twitching sphere until the _stop_ button was located and the ball could be safely laid on the floor. Mal added his hand to the list of items that would require a thorough cleansing before the night was over.

            "Uh, thanks," the Captain told him. He looked even more embarrassed than before under Mal's patient but cool gaze. "I think I've got it now." Porthos barked his encouragement.

            They stayed in the cargo bay half an hour before finally giving up. Porthos had seemed to enjoy himself, at least, but Mal felt quite dissatisfied—he'd barely even broken a sweat. Usually Trip gave him a challenging workout, taking great delight in devising fiendish moves and obstacles. But Captain Archer wasn't as experienced with the controls, of course, and anyway, he was trying not to make it too difficult for Porthos, who couldn't scramble to the top of the container stacks the way Mal could. Even given the elementary pace the Captain had set, the little dog's tongue was lolling wetly from his mouth by the time they finished.

            "Where, that was fun, wasn't it?" Captain Archer insisted, scooping up the beagle. "You're all tuckered out, aren't you, boy?"

           Mal gazed enviously at the cuddling and saw the Captain's sudden guilty look, as though he knew he hadn't performed up to the standards Mal was used to. Immediately the other man felt badly again—Trip would _not_ want him to point out the Captain's shortcomings to him, even silently. "Well, that was really quite—enjoyable, Captain," Mal told him politely, stumbling only a bit over the words. "You're _so_ kind to think of it!" That at least was true.

           "Oh, well, er, not at all," Captain Archer replied. "We all enjoyed it, didn't we?" He was speaking to Porthos again, which Mal found a bit silly. He'd done some research into this and doubted Porthos was going to answer any question put to him. Most of the time the little dog didn't even seem to be listening. "Although," the Captain continued, flexing his free hand, "my fingers are kind of sore now. I don't know how Trip manages this thing."

           "Trip has a great deal of manual dexterity," Mal informed the Captain, who nodded quickly. "Oh, I know what we can do next!" Mal added, brightening. "I shall give you a massage!"

           "Um, a massage?" Captain Archer repeated. He sounded a bit dubious, but Mal brushed that aside.

           "I give Trip massages _all_ the time," he went on blithely. "Trip says I'm quite talented at it."

           "Well, er, I'm not sure that's really necessary—"

           "Nonsense," Mal insisted. "We'll start with the hands, then move on to any other muscle groups that are giving you difficulty. There's nothing like a _vigorous_ massage to help you get to sleep at night!" He was quite excited now as they made their way back to the Captain's quarters. Trip would want Mal to do whatever he could to help the Captain out. "I've noticed you seem a bit stiff in the mornings, Captain," Mal added pointedly. "A nice, _firm_ back massage should help with that! You won't even know what hit you, I promise!"

           Porthos whimpered in his master's arms. Captain Archer looked a teeny bit like he wanted to do the same, but Mal couldn't let fear dissuade the man from having what Mal was certain would be an enjoyable experience. "Sorry," he sniffed at Porthos. "I don't do dogs."

 

            Trip recognized the smells first, followed by the sounds. Smells and sounds which were familiar, yet not necessarily pleasant—the smells and sounds of being in Sickbay yet again. But in this case, at least being in Sickbay meant he was back on the _Enterprise_.

            There was something warm and soft under his hand, and Trip knew what that was, too, without opening his eyes. He smiled a little and felt the warm, soft thing move. "Hello, Trip!" Mal said in a gentle voice. "I'm so glad you're home! Here, have a bit of water to drink."

            A straw was pressed against Trip's lips and he began to suck in a sip of water gratefully. Even that minor action caused pain, however, so he thought he'd better open his eyes and take stock of the situation. Mal was hovering over him, considerately blocking the light until Trip's eyes could adjust. "I'm glad to see you, buddy," he said with all sincerity, though it came out in a series of coughs and throat clearings. "What--?"

            "Oh, those horrible aliens and their broken-down ship!" Mal exclaimed with disgust, given Trip more water. "It's been _very_ poorly maintained, you know!" Trip nodded. He knew. He'd been in the thick of it. "Well, you see," Mal went on, "you were in the decompression chamber, waiting to be recompressed to come home, and it broke!" Mal sounded quite distressed. "So we had to get you out of there before you suffocated. And we did. But, you had decompressed a bit too much, or something like that, so Dr. Phlox had to squish you back together. That's why things hurt right now. But you'll be all better soon!"

            Trip nodded. Mal's explanation made as much sense as anything Phlox would tell him, undoubtedly. "No permanent damage?" he croaked out.

            "Oh, none at all," Mal assured him. "But Dr. Phlox says I mustn't hug you for at least a week!" This restriction was obviously very upsetting to him.

            "And that rule is going to be vigorously enforced," said Jon, stepping through the curtain around the biobed. "Just consider me the Hug Police."

            Trip grinned and took his friend's hand as the other man sat down. "So, am I gonna have to go back over and fix this new mess?" he asked, secure that the answer would be _no_.

            "They can fix their _own_ problem this time," Jon replied, a bit gruffly. He sounded as peeved as Mal had, which Trip found unusual. Jon sighed. "Though we'll probably send a couple engineers in EV suits out to repair the hole in their hull. Since we made it." He reached across Trip to ruffle Mal's hair. "Or rather, _he_ made it."

            Mal looked suitably modest. "Oh, well, it's my job to protect Trip, you know!"

            Trip was looking from one to the other in amazement. "And how did _Mal_ make a hole in the Crellians' ship?"

            "Well, their ship isn't very sturdy, is it?" Mal opined haughtily. "I don't see how they even fly through space safely. It might as well be covered in plasto-foil."

            Trip looked to Jon for clarification and the other man smirked a bit. "I don't think their hull was designed to withstand Mal when _you_ were in danger on the other side of it," he remarked, sounding proud. "According to Travis, he _punched_ through the docking port and dragged you into the shuttle."

            Trip was impressed, to put it mildly. "You _punched_ through the hull of a _spaceship_? With your bare hands?"

            "I was just about to transport Marcus over with some micro-detonators to blow the hatch—" Jon began.

            "—but there wasn't time!" Mal finished. "It was quite serious, you know."

            Trip struggled to sit up a bit and his friends helped prop the pillows behind him. His lungs ached like he'd been running a marathon on a mountain top—or been miscompressed then squashed back together. He looked Mal over from his new vantage point. "Are you hurt? Didn't it—hurt your hand or something?"

            Mal held up his seemingly undamaged hands and wiggled the fingers. "Well, they needed a bit of tending at first," he admitted, "but they're mostly healed up by now."

            Trip frowned at him and Jon hastened to point out, "You've been out for a couple days, Trip. Phlox had you recompressing, or something, in the imaging chamber until this morning."

            "Oh." Trip shrugged, figuring it was probably better that he'd missed whatever Phlox had done to him. "Well, when am I gonna get out of here?" he asked pleasantly, hand going to his face. "I can't wait to have a shave and a real shower…" His voice trailed off as he realized he wasn't sporting several days' patchy beard growth. Moreover his hair didn't have that greasy, unwashed feeling, and when he sniffed indelicately under his arm the smell didn't make him want to pass out. He turned to Mal suspiciously.

            "I've cleaned you!" the dark-haired man announced cheerfully. Trip rolled his eyes and Jon hid a smile behind his hand. "Four times already!"

            "In two days?" Trip asked, giving him an exasperated look.

            "No, only since this morning," Jon informed him innocently.

            "Dr. Phlox says cleanliness is very important to a patient's recovery," Mal replied. "And anyway, I haven't been able to clean you in _days_! I couldn't wash your face or brush your teeth or comb your hair…"

            "You don't do that anyway," Trip pointed out shortly.

            "A-ha!" Jon said triumphantly, pointing at Mal. "So I thought!"

            Trip had no idea what Jon was referring to, and Mal's expression said it was beneath his dignity to reply. "Oh, Trip, I've missed you _so_ much!" he reiterated instead. "Look at all the things I've made for you!"

            "Made for me…?" Trip repeated quizzically, as Mal reached for a stack of data pads at his feet.

            "Here, I've drawn you some pictures," Mal began, piling three data pads on Trip's lap.

            "Are these _full_?" Trip asked in amazement, scrolling through the files.

            "Very nearly," Mal confirmed. "And, I wrote you some songs. And, I wrote a poem for you."

            "A poem?" Trip asked dubiously, glancing at Jon, who shrugged.

            "It's more like a ballad," Mal corrected. "An epic adventure, really. And, I made up a new game we can play! See, you have pieces like this, and you spin this, and when you land on this symbol you have to hug the other person—"

            "No hugging!" Jon warned sternly. Mal gave him a narrow look.

            "Wow," was all Trip said, feeling slightly overwhelmed. Jon wondered if Mal was going to mention the musical video tribute he'd created—the file had been the number one download from the main computer until Jon had encrypted it.

            "Oh, and I made you this!" Mal went on, pulling a ring of jingly metal bits from his pocket. He slipped it around Trip's wrist. "It's a bracelet!"

            "What's it made from?" Trip asked, examining the asymmetrical metal pieces.

            "Oh, just little things I found around Engineering," Mal told him dismissively.

            Trip looked alarmed and glanced at Jon, who quickly murmured, "I'm sure it's nothing essential. But I'll check with Hess."

            "And," Mal persisted, drawing Trip's attention again, "I've invented some new recipes for you!"

            "Now that sounds more like it!" Trip responded with enthusiasm. "Four days of eatin' protein wafers makes a man long for some _real_ food."

            "Chef hasn't let me test them out yet," Mal reported, sounding determined, "but I'm certain they'll be perfect for your party!"

            "Party?" Trip asked, not sure how much partying he felt up to at the moment.

            Mal patted his hand. "We won't have it until you're well, of course! Though I've already got all the decorations made…"

            "Didn't you get any _work_ done while I was gone?" Trip asked rhetorically.

            "The party has a theme," Jon hinted, a grin tugging at his lips.

            "A _theme_?"

            "Oh yeah," Jon assured him. "I've seen the banner." After running into it strung across the doorway of his cabin the night before.

            Trip turned to Mal. "So, what's the theme, buddy? Ooh, I know, a luau! Something tropical, right?"

            Mal shook his head. "No, the theme is, 'Trip, I love you and I'm so glad you're home!'"

            "Well, I hope people don't have to come in costume," Trip deadpanned.

            "It took me a long time to decide on that theme," Mal explained seriously. "I thought about making the theme, 'Trip, I love you, welcome home!' but that didn't seem expressive enough." Trip nodded understandingly. "Then I was going to make the theme, 'Trip, I love you and I'm so glad you're off that horrible ship!' But Captain Archer said that was too negative."

            "Wise call," Trip judged.

            "I try," Jon answered.

            "But, then I thought of, 'Trip, I love you and I'm so glad you're home!' and everything just fell into place," Mal concluded.

            "Simple, yet elegant," Jon remarked dryly.

            "Maybe Mal could be the _Enterprise_ recreation director," suggested Trip.

            "Too much work," Mal countered, scooping up the pile of data pads he'd left on Trip's lap. A beep sounded from one of them and Mal glanced at the chrono. "Oh, look, it's been a whole four hours since I cleaned you last!" he announced leadingly.

            "Time to go!" Jon decided abruptly, standing.

            "Hey, wait a minute!" Trip protested, as Jon abandoned him.

            "I've been alternating between the minty and the fruity toothpaste. Do you have a preference this time?" Mal was asking while Jon retreated.

            "I want to talk to Phlox!" he heard Trip insist in return. "Surely I need a _little_ dirt on me…"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV switches to first-person Jon here.

            The plates were set in front of us and the steward departed. I kept an eye on Mal as he made a few exploratory pokes at his food. After a moment he screwed up his face and sighed, sounding like someone whom the universe has—unsurprisingly—disappointed yet again. "They put the nasty green circles in my omelet again!"

            Trip looked over at him with a frown. "What?" I said nothing, watching to see how Trip handled it.

            Mal plucked an offensive olive slice from his omelet and held it out for Trip to examine. "They gave me the nasty sour green circles, and not enough cheese! I think they don't like me in the kitchen."

            On the contrary, I was certain Mal had provided the kitchen staff with a great deal of amusement. One of these days I was going to get Marcus in here to sweep for hidden cameras.

            Trip wrinkled his nose at the olive slice. "You don't like _those_ , do you?" he commented. "They're too sour for you."

            "I agree!" Mal told him adoringly, as though he hadn't just said that himself. "You're so perceptive, Trip." Bat-bat-bat the eyelashes.

            Gag me.

            Although he would claim he wasn't, I knew Trip to be somewhat susceptible to flattery. "Well here, let's switch," he decided magnanimously, handing his omelet down to Mal. Mal passed his own plate up. "And I'll tell Chef you don't like olives."

            "Oh, thank you, Trip!"

            Hmm, that was the way to handle it, was it? Give in? Well neither Trip nor I could claim to be masters of discipline, it was true. Porthos had only been taught 'sit' and 'stay' for safety reasons; and even though I knew it was bad for him, he could always squeeze cheddar out of me with that soft, pleading gaze. Much like the one Mal was turning on Trip now.

            "Oh, Trip, your omelet has _mushrooms_ in it," he pointed out helpfully, as though Trip hadn't asked for that very thing. "That's a _fungus_ , you know."

            "So?" Trip asked, through a mouthful of food. I was glad T'Pol wasn't here to witness our manners (or lack thereof).

            "Well, couldn't I get a _fresh_ omelet?" Mal suggested delicately. "One without any nasty sour circles, or fungus, but _with_ piles of melty, gooey cheese?"

            For a second I predicted Trip would cave. Then I saw his eyes narrow. "No, you can't," he told Mal firmly. "Pick the mushrooms out if you don't want them. Or just eat your toast."

            Mal whined in the back of his throat. How well I knew _that_ sound. "But Tri-i-ip—"

            "Zip it," Trip ordered, then turned back to me and started talking about Engineering diagnostics. Mal zipped it and ate the mushrooms, without even sulking. Apparently Trip _could_ muster up a little discipline on occasion.

 

            "Movie Night, Movie Night, Movie Night," Mal chanted as we entered the Mess Hall Tuesday night.

            “You should take him to Movie Night sometime,” I suggested to Trip dryly. “He really seems to like it.”

            “He likes the _idea_ of it more than anything else,” Trip opined. “And _where_ are you going?” He grabbed Mal’s arm to stop the other man from proceeding down the rows of chairs towards the screen.

            “I was going to sit down,” Mal explained innocently. Trip indicated a chair in the _back_ row, where he and I stood. Mal pursed his lips. “Captain Archer let me sit in the _middle_ ,” he told Trip leadingly. He stretched up on his toes and pointed dramatically to the exact seat several rows up. “Just there.”

            “A rare treat,” Trip informed him as we sat down. Trip patted the seat beside him and Mal trotted over dutifully, settling in it on his knees. In the back row, he couldn’t block anyone’s view. Of course, the back row, everyone else blocked _our_ view. Mal probably had the best view, in fact, given that he was kneeling on the chair.

            Mal’s head twitched as he followed the stewards passing out popcorn. I grabbed a bag for myself and one for Trip, and Mal looked on enviously. “Captain Archer let me have popcorn last time,” he pointed out.

            “I bet he regretted _that_ ,” Trip remarked. Indeed I did. I had just found a stale, squashed kernel under my pillow this morning.

            “But what shall I have for a—“ Mal began to protest, silenced when Trip produced a bunch of grapes for him. “Ooh, _fruit_!”

            I glanced at Mal from the side, watching him with his treat. Obviously it was far more precious to him than the popcorn had been—it seemed unlikely the maintenance staff would discover any grapes crushed underfoot at the end of the evening. Clever. Very clever.

            The lights dimmed and I turned to the screen, tensing a little in anticipation of an encore performance of Mal’s musical tribute to Trip. I’d caught various crewmembers humming snatches of “My Guy” as Trip walked by, much to his bemusement, and it was all I could do to give them stern looks without letting my guilty conscience show. After all, Mal had only had time to create the loving montage because I’d sent him home tipsy… after feeding him ice cream at lunch… because I was fed up with his whining about my tuna salad… Well, somehow I felt it was my fault, but maybe my logic was as twisted as Mal’s could be.

            Fortunately the only thing that flickered to life on the screen was tonight’s scheduled film. An action movie. I knew Marcus would enjoy it at least—he was in the second row, no doubt taking notes every time something blew up. Hey, I liked random destruction as much as the next guy, but a little more variety would be nice. What about one of those old sci-fi movies where they predicted what life would be like in the twenty-second century, where we were all supposed to be interacting with android co-workers or playing in virtual reality chambers? As if.

            Mal was not a big fan of the action movie, either, and by the time the lights came back up he was on the floor, arms locked around Trip, head in his lap. He seemed to find the position comfortable and Trip didn’t mind it much anymore. In fact seeing how Trip contentedly scratched behind Mal’s ear made me wish I’d thought to bring Porthos.

            “Porthos?” Trip replied in confusion when I mentioned it. “I don’t think Movie Night was made for _dogs_ , Jon.”

 

NOTE: And the POV goes back to third-person. Sorry.

 

            When Trip had fully recovered from his ordeal, Jon invited him—and Mal, of course—to dinner in the Captain's Mess. To be honest Jon felt like he'd seen enough of Mal over the last few days, but he would never suggest that Trip leave him behind. Not that Trip _would_ leave him behind. And not that Mal would _stay_ behind if left.

            Trip was full of anecdotes about his stay on the Crellian ship and they were well into the meal before he thought to glance down at Mal, sitting on the floor between him and Jon, to ask, "So, Mal, did the Captain take good care of you while I was gone?"

            The question was asked lightly, but Jon hesitated, waiting for the answer with some trepidation. You could just never know what Mal might say sometimes.

            "Hmmm," the dark-haired man replied thoughtfully. "Yes, he was quite fine, overall."

            "Glad to hear it," remarked Trip, and Jon agreed.

            "He didn't let me help him on the Bridge," Mal elaborated, sounding a bit put out, "which was _quite_ unfortunate. I'm sure I could have brought him coffee and cleaned his chair and done all kinds of other wonderful, helpful little things for him…"

            Trip's lips twitched as he made eye contact with a slightly perturbed Jon. "Well, that's okay, that's just how the Captain likes to do things."

            "I suppose." Mal poked at his meal. "But, he was reasonably good about feeding me, and far better about petting me than T'Pol was."

            "Score one for Captain Touchy-Feely," Jon muttered.

            Remembering the last few days fondly Mal scooted closer to Jon and laid his head on his thigh. "Oh! And he let me sleep in the bed with him at night—sometimes even without Porthos—and he called me snuggle-bunny." Mal sighed happily while Jon squirmed.

            Trip's response was to choke on his food. A few moments later, when Trip's airway had been cleared and Mal was reassured that he wasn't going to die, and Jon was reassured that he didn't need to call for Phlox, Trip managed to get back to the conversation. "Snuggle-bunny?" he repeated, almost choking again on a sip of water. There was more than a hint of amusement in his manner.

            "He said you called him that!" Jon protested indignantly, face flushing again. Trip raised an eyebrow first at Jon, for believing that lie, then at Mal, for telling it, and Jon began to get even _more_ discomfited. "You _said_ —" he sputtered to Mal.

            "Well, that statement was a bit of an exaggeration," Mal admitted, without remorse. "I _wish_ Trip would call me snuggle-bunny," he hinted, curling close against the engineer. "I think it would be lovely, don't you?"

            "Oh no," Trip demurred, as Jon realized he'd been had. And that Trip wasn't going to let him forget it. "I don't think I can now. I think that's your _special_ nickname from Uncle Jon." He grinned wickedly at Jon.

            "It was only _once_ ," was all Jon could say to defend himself against his friend's snickers.

            "Well, since you and the Captain get on so well, maybe you guys can just see more of each other," Trip continued to tease. "Sleepover at Uncle Jon's tomorrow night, whaddya say?"

            "Hmm, I don't know," Mal replied, leaving Jon eternally grateful. "I have objections to Porthos as a roommate. He does rather smell a bit, and he's quite attention-seeking," he judged primly. "That's such an unattractive quality, don't you think?"

            Trip patted Mal on the head. "Oh, I don't know, I kinda like it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I never finished this! But I think it has a lot of cute scenes anyway.


End file.
